THE BATTLE

 

On a Monday wet and cool,

I decided on a day off school.

 

‘Get up at once,’ my mother said,

So I threw up all over the bed.

 

I groaned about feeling really horrid,

She only had to feel my forehead.

 

I knew I was sick with something contagious,

But her disbelief was really outrageous.

 

I clung to my bed, so she just got meaner,

And bashed me with the vacuum cleaner.

 

The blood that flowed from my bleeding nose,

She washed away with the garden hose.

 

She hit me with the old straw broom,

And kept chasing me from room to room.

 

At last she drove me out of the house,

And called me a dirty conniving louse.

 

I threatened to fling myself under the bus,

Determined to end this dreadful fuss.

 

When thrown on the bus with a parting curse,

I knew that life couldn’t get much worse.

 

Still dripping blood, an awful bother,

The driver threw me back to mother.

 

Didn’t she scowl as she made the decision,

That I could stay home and watch television.

 

Margaret Pearce

• Submitted in response to Poetry Prompt #4