They fuck you up, your mum and dad. They may not mean to, but they do. They fill you with the faults they had And add some extra, just for you. But they were fucked up in their turn By fools in old-style hats and coats, Who half the time were soppy-stern And half at one another’s throats. Man hands on misery to man. It deepens like a coastal shelf. Get out as early as you can, And don’t have any kids yourself. This poem is a parody of a homily; it tells a story, then finds a moral in that story. The story is that your parents do you damage, filling you with their own neuroses. With time, you can find compassion for your parents: After all, they are simply victims of their own parents, who were vicious and a mess. (And the viciousness and messiness were open secrets.) The final sta...