Oh look, it’s Mother’s Day again

Oh look, it’s Mothers Day again, the day you treat your mum.

So why the hell, you may well ask, do I look so fucking glum?

I’ll tell you why, but I warn you now, you really won’t be keen

To hear the reason why it’s so, but stay: I’ll vent my spleen.

It’s not the sentiment, you see: we know all mothers rock

It’s not the lie-in that I get, more sleep I will not mock.

It’s not the lunch, should I be blessed, to have it cooked for me

Nor the shop bought chocolates, I’ll devour those with glee.

There’s just one thing about it that really doesn’t make the grade

It’s the presents from my children that are clumsily handmade.

 

Don’t get me wrong, I do applaud the effort that was taken

But whatever it is in front of me is… crap, lest I’m mistaken.

They did try hard to make it look like something, I am sure

But this pile of card with daubs of paint is in no way craft couture.

Lumpen shapes of cardboard have been forced into a shape

Hacked until surrender, bound and gagged with Sellotape.

Paint, all seven shades of brown, has been thrown in its direction

On top of which a ball of foil has been rolled to imperfection.

 

A haphazard clump of pipe cleaners protrude from near the head

(I really would have just preferred the Elbow CD instead)

To finish off this masterpiece, they’ve gone crazy with the stickers

I know full well that by tonight. I’ll find one in my knickers.

Accessories adorn this thing: a badge, a coin, a peg

And protruding from the very rear, a plastic pirate’s leg.

Was this thing an act of love, by my precious two?

Nah, it was hastily assembled before watching Scooby Doo.

 

To decipher what this thing is I’d need the skills of DI Morse

Part troll? Part monster? A hint of rat? Or maybe mutant horse?

It has one eye… or sphincter – it is difficult to tell

And if I’m not mistaken, a slightly feral smell.

I casually enquire as to what this thing could be.

Apparently, it turns out, that the bloody thing is me.

Do I love them any less just because they’re crap at making?

Of course I don’t, but suggest next year they have a go at baking.

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