She lost their childhoods in a blaze of blues
Of sleep-free nights and irritated days
A playground mum who couldn't watch them play
And couldn't wait for bedtime and the booze
No wonder they'd refuse
To go to sleep
Get up with needs repeatedly for hours
No wonder that they'd never pick her flowers
Or if they did because they heard her weep
Or sometimes from a sudden fear
That she would vanish from her misery and them
Or like a wish, to say 'be you again'
I couldn't look that woman in the eyе, but she
Amongst her children's flowеrs, is dead
Her kids are mine, by pure coincidence.