She could have stopped at
But four will show how rich she is.
Now she can draw and play all day,
Paint sparkly cards and faff around,
Make lemonade that tastes like piss,
While Latvian cleaners do the bog
And Aussie nannies mind the kids.
Her husband barely contains his rage
Though much too suave to say.
In six months’time he will be gone
She’s digging her own grave.
It’s no fun being a dyspraxic with a deficit visual memory. Imagine if Sylvia Plath had to do formatting- she’d have topped herself even sooner…. Poetry keeps me sane, the rest drives me nuts and I’ve won no awards. And there’s nothing wrong with Readers Wives, my Mum was one.