There was an old woman who lived in a shoe.
She had so many children, she didn’t know what to do.
She gave them some broth without any bread;
And whipped them all soundly and put them to bed.
As you can see, I started out with a fib.
She wasn’t inept, had each kid in his crib.
Grabbed some chips and dip and a bottle of pop.
Into her recliner she fell with a plop.
She knew what to do each and every day.
How to raise these kids in her own special way.
All under control, not a stumbling block.
That is until Protective Services knocked.
She answered the door, let them into her house.
Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse.
“And where are the children?” they asked the old crone.
“They’re all sleeping soundly.” (Now leave me alone!)
(Who are these men to hound a poor soul like me?
Don’t they know I’m tired? I’m watching TV!
Kids run and they scream and they jump in the mud!
They drain a poor woman of all her life blood!)
“Please wake them and ask them to come see us here.”
(Great! I was about to pour myself a beer.)
She woke them the same way she put them to bed.
By whipping them soundly ’til faces turned red.
With each child before her, she counted each head.
(Praise and thanks be to god, not one of them dead.)
“Some men want to see you, but keep your mouths shut.”
“Or I’ll beat you good, on your skinny-ass butts.”
The children stood as mute as they had been told.
But the men were not fooled by their faces bold.
The old woman had done all that she could do.
To raise the children just as she needed to.
The children cried softly and walked to the door.
“We’ll take you away where she’ll hurt you no more.”
The woman just stood in the corner and sighed.
With her foster home closed, how would she get by?