Step the fuck back,
gluten-free soccer mom.
Return to your eight-seater minivan
and drive back to the confetti cake
you call home.
This game of life is no longer
playing out in your palm.
After the ninth month,
you regress to a supervisory role.
Just hold hands as you accompany
your child on their stroll.
Lower your fucking voice,
roided up, soccer dad.
You can't be a goalkeeper
if every step taken makes you mad.
If that's how you live your life,
your child will grow up sad.
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