The Tiny Dictator: a poem by Rotten

Don't let the cute face fool you- he's a tyrant.

Rotten's been working on making me lose my mind lately. A little of the "not going to eat, sleep, or stop crying- you figure out what's wrong, lady" really goes a long way to making me lose my sanity. The other morning, in an effort to relieve some tension, I wrote this. Enjoy.

I do not like to be put down,

Not on a blanket on the ground.

I do not like to go to bed.

I'll scream until my face is red.

Please don't give me to my brother,
I fear that more than any other.
And please, don't put me on the couch.
I'll give a headache; you'll say 'ouch.'

I must not be put in my swing,
a swing is simply not my thing.
You must not hand me off to Dad,
I freak right out, that makes him sad.

So, to prevent many tears
let me make this very clear:
I must always be held by Mom
if you hope to keep me calm.

Although she knows it's just a phase,
(she fears will last 'til end of days )
when she looks like she might cry,
probably best not to ask why.

Don't ask about the unwashed hair,
unshaved legs, or for clean underwear
or why pj's stay on 'til noon,
or why she hasn't cleaned her room.

I can't let her think of all that stuff.
Sometimes, it gets a little rough
For she must meet all my demands.
Tiny dictators must be kept close in hand.