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Mrs. Robinson's Suburban Thunderdome Expressway

Updated on October 11, 2017

Welcome to the cul-de-sac, neighbor

Enjoy your stay at what could be paradise or a nightmare

Time to meet your newest cellmate: Mrs. Robinson

More than the averagely bored and desperate housewife

A woman close to reaching the end of her pearl laced tether

Behind the Pink Parfait lipstick smile courtesy of Estee Lauder

Carried the ice sculptured heart of a sociopathic incognito

Someone so frozen solid; not even Betty Crocker could heat

That attractive human casserole up at 350 degrees

Well-manicured OPI nails and Maybelline cheeks

Could not mask the black coal shaped irises

Once bluer than the Mount Laurel skyline at 2:00 PM

Fed up with running a household daily

Would rather mow down Mr. Robinson with the new Range Rover

Always chickening out of the deed at the 11th hour

For fear of having to clean up any of the mess personally

Forced to ring in 42nd birthday with a chest freezer

Along with six screaming hellions in tow each moment

No relief from the bad dreams and obscenely dirty diapers

Sanity face mask slipping off even after two coats of Gorilla glue

Unable to plaster on a genuine smile when Billy draws a picture

On the living room wall in permanent Sharpie

Sick of ironing Mr. Cleaver's slacks instead of torching them

Tempted to pack the large duffel bag from the hall closet

Fake driver's license, passport and plane ticket

Disappearing into life's endless abyss

Never to return before committing an unspeakable horror

And pretending it was just another Monday chore

Ready to make an escape from this suburban torture chamber?

Just pay the $4,000 farewell tax and say sayonara to the security deposit

Either that or wait until the alarm clock goes off

Billy or Mr. Robinson won't clean the mess themselves

Repeating this viciously maddening rinse cycle once again.


A getaway vehicle of sorts.
A getaway vehicle of sorts.

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