If I spoke of your colors, folks would figure it out,
So your name or your school I will not spout.
But you drive many wild, not just me, everyone,
From your embarrassed hubby to your perplexed son.
For a game called "gentleman's," you never fail to show,
To anguish the masses, every Mary, Curly and Moe.
With your "smothering" instincts in gear full bore,
You rachet up the misery, with I am woman, hear me roar.
If the truth be told, you're a pathetic joke,
With an in-your-face ego that you played til it broke.
I have no doubts your child's a great human being,
But your act wears as thin as a worn fiddle string.
That plays sour notes to we bimbos and dolts,
Who're there just to savor in our lawn chairs and coats.
Please don't load the gun, Mama, I'm almost done,
For as hard as you're on the rest of us, its far worse for your son.
Now I pray this preamble slaps you upside the head,
And all was not for naught, but a lesson learned instead.
So please pause for the cause, take this message to heart,
For the web you weave deceives and tears us all apart.
And in the years that remain, I hope you recall and abhor,
That you destroyed the good times we were all there for.