Six weeks off; amazing, great!
It’s only the last five you’ll fucking hate.
You’ve done everything in week one, you filled your days,
With crafting and baking, it was gone in a haze.
The house is a tip now and you can’t see the floor,
But it’ll soon pass, there’s only five more.
Week two draws in and you wake filled with dread,
What do we do now? My head is a shed.
A family day out, a lovely idea!
It pisses it down with rain, pass me a beer.
Three weeks in and you’re going mad,
You didn’t think finding shit to do would be so bad.
You’re nagged and you’re moaned at more and more,
Can we? Can we? Can we? It’s becoming a bore.
Week four can fuck off, this is the worst,
Just over half way and an empty purse.
You’ve been uniform shopping and you’ve spent all your cash,
And all you want is a night on the lash.
Week five is strop week, you’ve heard and seen it all,
Get them in bed so you can stare at the wall.
Week six and more moaning that there’s nothing to do,
And you hide behind the fridge door mouthing ‘fuck you’.
But inside you’re smug, smug as can be,
Because it’s back to school next week, you’ve survived – yippee!!