Mother-In-Law Poem by Herbert Nehrlich

A WOMAN'S POEM
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 **it out of him...
Like his mother used to do.


My answer:

Then his mother came to visit
she was used to have her way,
she yelled 'my boy what is it? '
He was silent and wouldn't say.
So I said you are HIS mother
but you are Jack Schitt to me,
one thing led to another
she soon went off her tree.
I cook, she said, those dishes
that make the big chefs cry,
fulfill my darling's wishes
to the day that I shall die.
And I know you are quite basic
didn't learn a bloody thing
but I am multiphasic
and a queen to the old king.
My boy deserved much better
than a lazy socialite
and an overly clumsy fretter
wearing kilos of cellulite.

I had finished a blueberry pie,
it was hot from the oven and big.
So I aimed for that mean evil eye
and descended upon her blond wig.
And she hollered and screamed until late
while the pie was all over her face.
From the piece that she tasted and ate
she could tell that she'd lost her own case.
Then my hubby came home from the bar
always hungry for crusties and sweets
and he spotted his mum from afar
(it was likely her spherical teats) .
And that day was the day we divorced
there was nothing that could have been done
and his mother, much later, endorsed
an accountant from Frankfurt, a Hun.
As for me, I went over to Greece
to an island and stayed at the beach.
Then I chose the most obvious piece
it was ready and quite within reach.
We got married that day, in a fever
and he spoke only guttural stuff,
but he liked my down under hot beaver
and for me that was really enough.