I have tree stumps in the bedroom, a bordello in the hall,
Box rooms, varied sizes, hang in rows upon the wall.
A dollshouse in the bedroom, and another by the door.
A castle, jail and baby shop, a wishing well and more.
You're not like other mothers, my despairing family cry,
You're living in another world, you're nuts! I hear them sigh.
Other peoples' mothers, they say in stern reproof,
Use irons for their clothing, not shingles on the roof.
Or making little flowers of puff paint blue and red,
Other peoples' mothers don't get sawdust in the bread.
Other peoples' mothers bake wondrous cakes and pies,
Not creatures out of fimo with bewitching little eyes.
Other peoples' mothers (I can't believe it's true)
Keep spotless tidy kitchens, not paint and wood and glue.
Other peoples' mothers clean their kitchen floor,
They don't cut up the budgie cage to make a jailhouse door,
Or interupt the bidding at bridge to say " three spades
And can I have your shirt to make an outfit for my maid?"
Other peoples' mothers must have a boring life.
How tedious to be a perfect housekeeper and wife.
No Polystyrene sandwiches, no fairies on the shelf
No dreaming of another world you created by yourself.
Other peoples' mothers have got their lives all wrong,
They have their Christmas once a year,
We have it all year long.