Brat

I found the first part of this poem tucked away in one of my poetry books. It was obviously written before I had any children of my own. I am pretty certain at least one child of mine has graced the floor of the local supermarket. Oh well.

I read in this week’s Macleans that “British psychiatrists have calculated the annual cost at about $12,200 extra for kids with anti-social behaviour.” Most of that is money is just for cleaning up after them, “only $20 per person is spent on mental health treatments for minors”. Never mind the cash you would need to spend at the spa just to unwind!

The poem was fun to clean up and the sentiment still stands … I really don’t want a brat… and I guess I can’t afford to have one either!

Brat

I do not want one
(Who does?)
A child who rolls on the floor
Kicking and screaming, man overboard
I do not want one
No thanks.

How cruel,
How cruel!
No luscious sweets
Just cans of yucky sugar beets
No candy bars or gummy feets
His parents are
So cruel

Give him more,
“He’s just misunderstood”
Give him cream and candy puffs
Licorice cups and fluffy fluff
Sweet and Sour Mountain cuffs
But do it till he’s way past stuffed
Roll him out the sliding doors
(After all he’s on the floor)
Roll him past the cars of green
Squeeze him in your flash machine
Belt him in and roll away
So he can scream some other day.

Brat
I do not want one
(Who does?)
No thanks.