Just a little poem someone sent me.

He didn’t like the casserole
And he didn’t like my cake.
He said my biscuits were too hard…
Not like his mother used to make.
I didn’t perk the coffee right
He didn’t like the stew,
I didn’t mend his socks
The way his mother used to do.
I pondered for an answer
I was looking for a clue.
Then I turned around and smacked the shit out of him…
Like his mother used to do.

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