My Mother, Ladies and Gentlemen, my queen of daytime TV.
My everything, oh darling, for all the world to see.
She burned the living room, perhaps a little bright.
And strangled her children, noose a little tight.
I swear she didn’t mean it.
And swear, and swear. And swear some more.
But then watched with anger.
That strange slaughter up and down the hall.
A little blood here. A small cut there.
Never mind, never mind. Move on, be kind.
A trap, you see, white embers burning bright.
She was and always be, a small screen socialite.
Bet you don’t believe me. Doesn’t matter. Doesn’t compute.
Just sit there on the couch, watching re-runs absolute.