Happy birthday Mum, happy birthday Mother.
This year I hoped to buy you a present like no other.
Every year since I was wee, I've bought you something you think is shit.
Why don't you ever listen to that CD I bought you last year, Robbie William's Greatest Hits?
Don't you like Robbie Williams? You told me you do.
And every year, Dad gave me money so I could make your special day sunny.
But not this year no, I payed myself.
Yes, I took a loan, no money for drinks, you overestimate my wealth.
I even suprised you at work in front of your friends,
Do you know what kind of message that sends? (It's love.)
But after you saw the flowers and learned the cost
You sighed and shook your head; my words were lost.
Perhaps I was wrong to think you like fake flowers.
Don't you like fake flowers? You told me you do.
And then you said perhaps I should have bought you jewellery from that shop.
"You know that shop in Myer? 70% off!" Ok that's enough I get that you hate my gift, just stop.
At least pretend to like them, just for a little bit.
Just long enough so that I don't feel like shit.
At least return them behind my back, not to my face.
Why to my face? Why to my face?
You trampled my heart when you (metaphorically) trampled those flowers, lucky they were fake and still in shape.
Because unlike my heart, they won't need to be mended using sticky tape.
Figure 1: My heart.
