| A song for the average woman. |
| When I was just a toddler, |
| Only knee-high to an ant, |
| I had the vilest temper in the nursery. |
| I would pout and sulk for hours, |
| And I'd weep and rail and rant. |
| My attempts to dry the tears were only cursory. |
| And though poor Mum and Dad were often blue, |
| They'd say "It's just a phase she's going through." |
| It's just a phase! |
| It's just a phase... |
| Accounts for all her wild and wanton ways. |
| So the Brownies have expelled her |
| For an undisclosed offence; |
| And opening up her school report |
| Beats Hitchcock for suspense. |
| When you think about it logically |
| You know it all makes sense! |
| It's a phase. |
| Just a phase. |
| When I grew into a woman, |
| When I left my toys behind, |
| My temper was the scandal of the neighbourhood. |
| And each and every boy-friend |
| Would be viciously maligned. |
| My tongue possessed the edge a Russian sabre would. |
| But every boy I drenched in my abuse |
| Would stop and think and offer this excuse. |
| It's PMT! |
| It's PMT! |
| She's obviously in dreadful agony. |
| Though she's poisoned all the sparrows |
| And she's disembowelled the cat; |
| Rampaging through the kitchen |
| Like some Transylvanian bat; |
| Underneath she's very sweet, |
| It's such a pity that |
| It's PMT. |
| It's PMT. |
| When I finally got a husband; |
| When at last I was a bride; |
| I became the very vilest type of harridan. |
| My children all were cringing |
| For I'd nag them till they cried. |
| Then I'd curse the very pram that they were carried in. |
| But did my husband ever remonstrate? |
| He'd say "I know what's got her in this state." |
| It's motherhood... |
| Ah! Motherhood... |
| Her tantrums often are misunderstood. |
| Though her cooking does remind one |
| Of the Borgia's at their best; |
| And a glare from either eyeball |
| Can bring cardiac arrest; |
| When she got laryngitis |
| We were grateful for the rest! |
| It's motherhood. |
| Just motherhood. |
| When the children had departed -- |
| When at last my time was free -- |
| I took on all the calmness of a mortar shell. |
| I joined the Women's Institute -- |
| Or maybe they joined me; |
| And dyed my hair a nasty shade of tortoise-shell. |
| And though my temper worsened by the day, |
| They'd shake their heads indulgently, and say: |
| She's on the change! |
| She's on the change! |
| All her molecules and hormones rearrange. |
| Though her dizzy spells are awesome, |
| And her future's looking bleak; |
| Her migraines have the power |
| Of Mount Etna at its peak; |
| Her flushes kept the central heating |
| Running for a week! |
| She's on the change! |
| She's on the change! |
| © Leonard Morley 2009 |