Mother Issues

It’s so very retro, you know, to “therapize” this,

Psychoanalyze that,

And, well, hey, I’m pressed for time at the mo’.

Ossetra caviar, Prime Côte de Boeuf at Spago,

Stoli martinis and a line or two at Mudd,

Night games at my penthouse,

Huey Lewis and the News on the stereo,

You know how it goes.

 

So these boys and their tatty chic,

The ones you honestly think you’ll “fix,”

Though I’m really pressed for time at the mo’,

I can practically do your job for you.

The dark one to my left with the sweater, the oxford shirt

(Is that Ralph Lauren by the way?),

The flinty eyes, the smile that burns,

The dead woman in the shower, so very retro.

He’s got Mother Issues.

You know how it goes.

 

The silent type to my right

With the rusty machete in that iron grip,

The raggedy, waxed jacket

(Is that Barbour by the way?),

That mask to hide the battle scars,

The tang of decay, the muddy slacks,

The dead teenagers in the woods, so very retro.

He’s got Mother Issues.

You know how it goes.

 

And as for me, well, I don’t need a psychology degree

To do your job for you.

I’m pressed for time at the mo’.

Judging by the Baltimore twang

Belying the Eurotrash background,

The silk tie, the carefully tailored suit

(Is that Brooks Brothers by the way?),

The smooth control of your tone,

The haughty pretention,

The Joy of Cooking, De Humani Corporis Fabrica,

And all the other dreary books upon your shelf,

Well, hey, I’d wager you’ve got Mother Issues,

So very retro.

 

But you know how it goes.

 

 

 

 

(For the fellow horror fanatics.)

In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Pleased to Meet You.”