• There is such a hullabaloo,
    And down-right bother,
    When growing to twenty-two,
    Or growing as old as Dear Father.

    Missed become the times where
    We were told to walk and to talk,
    Now we’re told to sit on our derriere,
    And cease our insistent talk.

    Gone are the days of mud and bugs,
    Replaced with endless and tiring jobs.
    Gone are days of kisses and hugs,
    Only to be replaced with paper mobs.

    We wait all of our lives to grow up,
    To have the freedoms our parents have,
    Only to find to work we must gallop,
    While our luxuries seem to halve.

    Such a bothersome bother,
    To grow old and wrinkly,
    I’ll ask my wonderful mother,
    If that’s why she’s so bitchy.