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Since I was a hippie decades ago before the drugs wore off and I came to my senses...and in the spirit of the original Woodstock, here is some famous old bad poetry I just wrote which is worth slightly less than you paid for it:

Thanks, Mom...I Guess

Thanks are in order mom,
or so it would seem.
For ending my life,
my hope, my young dream.

That night I arrived to my comfy new cave,
there were rockets, I sensed, and at least one crashing wave.

What magic did flare as you and he became three.
To be the joy of your lives surely Destiny chose me.

Till morning's first light brought with it the fright,
which made one thing first now to be clear.
That though I loved you, dear mom, with all my tiny little might,
you did't seem to even know I was here.

Hours became days, my fate just a haze,
the good news had not reached you still yet.
Then came the pee test and my heart-broken gaze,
at your face now clearly filled with regret.

Perhaps it is daddy who'll love me dear,
and find me so unbearably cute.
But it's your 'civilized' Society I now fear,
it deeming his will and mine to be moot.

What kind of place are you running out there,
where daddys and daughters and sons,
Must sit on their hands or pull out their hair,
awaiting moms' rulings on the next chosen ones?

So, thanks to you mom and thanks again still.
For your love as fleeting as Twitter,
for permantently cancelling my sitter,
and for at least choosing to kill via pill!

You can have your cruel world and its hearltess love making,
where His blessings are now viewed as a bother.
But if you find a spare moment 'tween all the pills that we're taking,
please write to me care of the Father.