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DYSFUNCTIONAL DAILY BREAD
At five o'clock sharp, all must be present or our world would just stop.
All seats are filled and now Dad must say grace.
What happens next is to hard to face.
How it all starts I still can't quite see,
But whatever is happening makes it hard for me to breathe.
Stop it, stop it, stop it--please, don't call her names.
Don't pick and tease; don't yell at her and make her cry.
Why can't she have one piece of pie?
What is fat? I just can't see.
When I look at her, she looks just like me.
Now you've gone and made her sad.
I can't take it and I'm getting so mad.
Help me, help me--now I can't eat, for if I do, he might hate me.
There's just one way to stop this scene: I'll spill my milk.
Distractions ease, the pain she feels I can fix.
I think now I'll just drop my dish.
Such confusion, what a mess.
What's that you say? I ruined Mom's dress?
Go to my room? I'm a brat? Well, that must be better than being fat.
Those dinners are done. Many years have gone past.
I never go home . . . I've learned to avoid fat.
