"A" is for Anger,
mine's starting to grow.
Because "B" is for Bedtime,
but you scream "I won't go!"
“C” ‘s for the ocean
of frustration I feel.
“D” ‘s my Disgust,
which I just can’t conceal.
“E” ‘s for Excuses,
yours never run out.
And when they don’t work?
You whine and you pout.
So “F” is for “Fine!
You wanna act this way?”
“G” is for “Good,
I’ve got somethin’ to say.”
“H” is How bratty
and selfish you can be.
Because “I” is the only one
you can see.
“J” is for Judgement,
which I’ll render right now.
As I list your offenses:
who, what, when and how.
“K” is for the Kick
that I just saw you do.
“L” is for lies,
tell one more and you’re through.
“M” is for your Mouth,
and the way you demand.
“N” is for “No,”
which you don’t understand.
“O” is for the Outrage,
you so often express:
“Oh my God!,” “I hate you!”
“It isn’t my mess!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?”
“P” ‘s for “a Pain.”
You are; it’s a fact.
“Q” is for Questioning,
without end, without tact.
“R” is for Rest,
which you won’t let me get.
“S” is for Screaming,
every time you’re upset.
“T” is for Tantrum,
which to my dismay
you throw without warning,
when you don’t get your way.
“U” is Unfair,
which I don’t want to be,
but “V” is the Verdict.
What it is, you'll soon see.
“W” is the Way,
I reviewed each offense,
putting “X” beside “guilty”
’cause it made the most sense.
But “Y” you might ask!
“Oh, how can this be?
I’ve been framed, I swear.
Please don’t convict me!”
Relax. Take a moment.
Before I pass sentence.
There’s one letter left:
Is it R for repentance?
It’s “Z” as in craZy,
since that’s how it looks,
to give you a pardon,
(just like they give crooks).
Yes, you are rotten,
I can’t excuse what you did.
But this time I’ll forgive you,
‘cause you are my kid.
But don’t push it.
“I hate you! I hate you! I wish you were dead!
You’re mean and unfair!” said the boy as he fled.
He was sick of his parents, their yelling, their shouts,
the way they “abused” him, with all those time-outs.
Out the back door he ran, as fast as he could,
thinking only one thought: “I’ll show ‘em real good.”
He jumped over the fence, and took off down the street,
nothing could stop him, not even bare feet.
He ran with abandon, going left and then right.
He kept going and going, until day turned to night.
“How they’ll miss me!” he thought, with glee and elation,
“They’ll be sad and depressed! They’ll need medication!”
He cut through an alley, climbed over a wall,
headed straight for the heart of the great urban sprawl.
“Just a little bit further! I’ve got to keep going.”
But the pain in his feet, was rapidly growing.
Each step was like fire, burning and hot,
his blisters got blisters, his toes became rot.
So he slowed to a stop, let his lungs fill with air,
said “I’ve gone far enough!” (though he didn’t know where).
He was so far away, he’d never be found.
Not by his parents, or a well-trained bloodhound.
But if he felt joy, he wasn’t aware.
‘cause this place he was at, was like a scary nightmare.
It was crumbling and dirty, as if left for dead.
A place full of terrors that filled him with dread.
He saw strangers in shadows, like demons from Hell.
He heard ominous shrieking, and a ghastly ghost-yell.
From deep down inside, came a slow, silent swelling,
a feeling of “DANGER!” What kind? There’s no telling.
So he started to cry. What else could he do?
There was nowhere to run, no adults to turn to.
He slumped to the ground, alone and afraid,
regretting completely, the choice that he’d made.
“I’m sorry! I’m sorry! I made a mistake.”
Then his heart filled with sorrow, and started to ache.
“Never oh never, will I run away.
Or let out my anger! Or again disobey!”
“Good,” said his mother, limping up by his side,
her own bare feet throbbing, from the long run outside.
“Run away if you want, but one thing you should know.
I’ll watch over you always, wherever you go.”
“But enough is enough. You must change your ways.
You must show me respect. And do it always.”
Then she hugged him most tightly, as tight as she could.
And they both hobbled off, the truth understood.
At home he was grounded for the rest of the year.
But he didn’t complain: “Worse places than here!”
Then later that night, feeling safe as can be,
he thanked God for his mom, “She really loves me.”
What about inspiration?
The inspiration for both the series and the stories that make it up comes from my kids, my friends' kids, kids I've worked with professionally over the years, books I've read and my imagination.
What do I think of "Go the F**K to Sleep?
It's great but not for everyone. (I read it to my oldest kid, but not to my youngest kid because he can't stand it when I curse.)
Any final thoughts?
I appreciate everyone who takes the time to read through this and, especially, those who choose to support "Fairy Tales for Rotten Children." (I also apologize for any typo's -- proof-reading is just not my strength.)