No mother purposely intends to court grief,
To raise her precious little child
To be a junkie, druggie, liar and thief.
Honest truth, the two I raised went wild.
The sweet cub-scouts, the little league players,
The bike riding little fishermen,
The Sunday School and summer camp boys
Who later found themselves in the grip of addiction,
Somehow, somewhere, something went wrong.
My grand plans were headed for perdition.
Neither was neglected, abused or rejected,
I always did my very, by the Dr. Spock book, best
To ultimately provide, the basics and
Moreover, finer things – maybe in excess.
Quality time, educational trips, and all the other
Accoutrements the experts claimed
Would insure their life’s success;
Acceptance to college, and maybe fame.
But addiction is the greedy monster
That is hiding silently under the bed,
And lurking behind the closet door
Savage and hungry and waiting to be fed.
My precious sons – the monster ate,
And, for a short while, all that I was holding,
Was a mother’s misery, wine, and hate.
