Back Seat Brouhaha

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Driving in the car with kids
is my idea of torture.
It leads to mental illness
and language that's a scorcher.
The little ones get car sick
and upholster the back seat
with half-digested French fries
that resemble Cream of Wheat.
Their bellowing is non-stop
and their feet kick like a mule --
they've never even heard of
something called the Golden Rule.
You threaten and cajole them
'til your veins begin to pop,
and in return they mumble
they could sure use a rest stop.
They throw things out the window
and complain the trip's a drag.
They criticize your driving
and ask why you have to lag.
I've learned from many car trips
that when dealing with a punk
the best thing you can do is
lock them up inside the trunk.

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