DYSFUNCTIONAL

My mamma ain’t the mamma

That a mamma ought to be

My Daddy’s got some stories

That won’t gain him sympathy

My sisters and my brothers

They’re just looking for a fight

My point of view is coloured

It’s blacker than it’s white.

There’s a word for people like us

Is it dysfunctional

But what you fail to notice

Is we’re paradoxical

There’s a word for people like us

Is it dysfunctional

And no matter what you call us

We’re still unstoppable.

There’s not a wound we’ve closed

Without abusing the cure

There’s not a truth we’ve harvested

Without taking a detour

And in between the shame and pride

We create our own utopia

Then when things come shattering down

We shape it into disturbia.