The Kids Are Coming

The kids are coming down
bringing brown paper bags:
onions, peppers, celery sticks,
whiskey, Camels, lots of tricks,
the kids are coming down.

The kids are coming today, hooray,
bringing records to play, like
My Name is Barbara, Moody Blues,
Peter, Paul, and Mary, too.
The kids are coming, I say.

The kids are here
weighed down with beer and
diapers, bottles, handi-wipes galore.
You make one and they make more.
The kids are here.

Oh dear.

The kids stay on,
the days grow long,
the babies clean the floor.
The kids watch golf
on channel four,
stereo at low roar.

The kids have gone
and on and on the sweeping
must be done.
They’ve left no beer, not one souvenir,
the kids have gone
away.