My mother had a tranquil life the years before my birth,
when I increased her headaches in addition to her girth.
I was a question-asker—a most impertinent child,
and my ever-present inquiries drove my mother wild.
The preponderance of these queries got greater year-by-year.
Why was my reflection backwards when looking in the mirror?
Where did babies come from and where were they before?
When she and daddy went to bed, why did they lock their door?
It wasn’t until later that we seemed to trade places
and then it was my mother who put me through my paces.
Why was I coming home so late? Why was my lipstick smudged?
By the time that I was seventeen, I was the party judged.
Thus did life do a turn-about concerning endless questions,
with the one who was interrogator now doling out confessions.