In youth, I used to hate the dark.
My mother was aware of this.
Her help was often off the mark.
At dad she'd point with a remark
that she would whisper in a hiss:
"In youth, he used to hate the dark."
But he'd deny this with a bark,
and then reject her calming kiss.
Her help was often off the mark.
At night she'd wake me for a lark,
but all it did was make me piss.
In youth, I used to hate the dark.
So then she said: "You're no bright spark!
You're just as whimpy as your sis!"
Her help was often off the mark.
My home was no amusement park,
but at the end I confess this:
in truth, today I hate the dark
because mom's help was off the mark.