for all of those who have said the holidays are the most fun,
they have never been the house spouse holding a loaded gun.
the ones that think each morning we get up with the golden sun,
and we each just have coffee and a fresh baked cinnamon bun.
this might have been how it was once, still calling each other hun,
but now I am just another one of those women who wishes to run.
we are told to stay loyal to our very loving and kind man,
the ones who try to do everything, help in every way they can.
but if you don’t get one like that, you just have to suffer and plan.
be held at the hand of abuse, accept nothing but sitting by a fan,
waiting for him to make up his mind, always being the madman.
sit by in the bar as he tries to order something like a black and tan.
they are nothing more than fools who just can’t tell time.
they can’t understand counting coins, pennies and dimes,
to make it through the month without considering some crime.
most of all, most of them don’t understand why poems rhyme,
why we work and toil all of the time, washing away dirt and grime.
they have never lived our lives, never had to take that uphill climb.
and here I am as the housewife with the loaded gun in her mouth,
the once precious belle, long ago traveling from the very deep south.
that girl was so precious and young and kind,
she would have, could have been a very nice find,
for someone equally innocent, if she hadn’t been so blind.
now she continues to find herself in an eternal bind.