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 make the coffee right, he didn’t like my stew.
I didn’t fold his pants, the way his mother used to fold his pants, 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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