You fucked us up, our Oedipus,
Perhaps you didn’t mean to;
We should have kept you home with us
And had your problems seen to.
It’s wise of kids, some geezer wrote,
To recognise a parent,
But when you’ve lived somewhere remote
You maybe lack discernment.
But worrying your Dad to death
Then fancying your Mother
Confuses all the kith and kin
(Is Pol your son, or brother?)
That’s not the way a family
Can live together kindly,
And life will turn out crummily
If you approach it blindly.