After two decades

We’re a sorry, suffering lot

Your temper and your rage—

A true despot!

But we found a way to keep the peace

(Still getting nothing we want

And losing every fight you start)

Until we got a call—

From the Lease Department

But that’s not what they meant

To keep the calm

So we could carry on

We made three rules

They make us sound like fools!

But they work

Rule Number One:

Give you everything you want—

Exactly when you want it

If the choice is this or a tantrum:

Choices?

Ha! We only ever have one

Rule Number Two:

Never es-ca-la-te

Mispronounce it—

So it rhymes with Eggnog Latte, too

Clowning around ‘till you think the joke is on you

Always the tragic martyr in your B-rate theater

Then claiming your bullshit is win-win

Trying to get under my skin

Unquestionably making me your clown

At least I don’t have to hit every branch on the way down

Rule Number Three:

Just say “yes”

And hope you forget

Sometimes this works

Other times you remember, we regret

(So now apply Rules One and Two—

We know what to do!)

Living with a terrorist can be hard

If we don’t follow The Three Rules—

Even harder!

One day it might again become unbearable

Wailing in the shower is something terrible!

Or maybe curled up in the fetal position

On the floor

And that’s when we know it’s time:

For Rule Number Four