Wait until your father gets home,
The mother said,
He’ll give you what’s for,
And I won’t blame either,
Why you’ve been nothing

But a pain in the butt all day
And given me worry
And now I have a headache
And… what’s that?
For me? Flowers?

You picked them for me, honey?
Why that’s kind of you, sweetie,
Real good, makes my heart soften
To hear you say those words.
Daddy? Tell him what?

You and I honey
Are going say nothing,
We are going to sit
And listen to him
As he moans

All about his day
And smile to each other
And think of that small poesy
Of flowers and those sweet words
That came from your little

Two-year-old lips,
And you standing there
With your hands on your hips
And that smile sweeter
Than an angel’s kiss.