No one loved you enough to clean the puke off of you,
So you slept in your own filth,
Until you were sober enough to clean it up yourself.

The only Christmas present they got you was a gingerbread house,
For you to build so they could destroy it,
Drowning the gingerbread people in drool,
Along with your happiness,
Knowing they probably bought it with the money they stole from your pillowcase,
Covered in tears.

So you drowned your sorrows in something a little stronger,
Strong enough to burn that frog that was stuck in your throat.
And for the first time you spoke.
You spoke and you praised and you confessed and you cried.
And for the first time they heard.
They heard and they listened and they cried.

In the morning, you awoke to find,
That no one loved you enough to clean the puke off of you,
So you slept in your own filth,
Until you were sober enough to clean it up yourself.

-SLuR