June Cleaver

I grew up in the fifties, with the Cleavers on the air.

But mom & dad were nothing like that televised affair.

Fighting, drinking, smoking, letting grass grow up waist-high –

The place was as oppressive as the ship of Captain Bligh.

Dinner was a shouting match, with mashed potatoes flung;

The air was filled with swearing, like a barn is full of dung.

But I suspect the Cleavers never had a child like me –

I hid my dad's new dentures at the tender age of three.

I flushed my mother's French perfume completely down the crapper,

Painted walls with lipstick, left the bread out of the wrapper;

Took apart the toaster, fed my sister pepper sauce,

Peed upon the flowerbeds to show them who was boss.

That they never beat me or put me up for sale

Is to me a miracle, for certain – without fail!

So here's to June, and father Ward, whose show was an ideal—

Maybe it was corny but it never got puerile.