Lazy! Mañana?!
Children drag their feet.
If they don't get off their haunches, they'll be beat.
Their room is scummy, and the rug is rent.
Mom's looking for the coathanger that's unbent.

Finds it under a loose-lying suitcase,
Switches it in the air, hear it hum.
She tells them, "Bend down and grab your bootlace!"
Oh, how it stung!

Lady, mad momma.
Laying on with zest.
She'd be certain to ace the Captain Bligh test.

[Kazoo-like sounds of ow, ow, ow, ow. . . !]

Oh, how it stung.

Lame where she mauled 'em. Lying upended,
Ice bags on their moons, to turn them blue from red.

Tuesday afternoon, they're out and spending
Money for bas couture for their buns.
Kevlar pants that never will need mending—
Seams that won't run.

Lay on there, momma!
Turns red as a beet.
She mauls their haunches, but she's the one who's beat.