Everyday I come home
To a grumbling gnome
On the leather couch
Where all he does is slouch
There’s no “How was your day, honey?”
Or “I’ll take care of that with my money”
I change out of my scrubs
And give myself a couple rubs
With bags under my eyes
I still bake those dinner pies
I still frost that pound cake
But not like his mother used to make
He says my biscuits are too hard
He says my supper meat is too charred
Not like his mother that used to cook with lard
I try to brew his coffee right
I try to carefully prepare his egg white
Never like his mother used to do at daylight
He doesn’t like my beef stew
He doesn’t like my cookies with cashew
I just have no clue
So I turn around and smack
The crap out of him
Just like his mother used to do