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My silly lyrics loosely based on Camp Grenada by Alan Sherman . . . This version is lovingly dedicated to my daughter, my inspiration, my messy muse if you will. I dramatized things just a tad but the premise of this little ditty is based on actual events, my husband and I are still in therapy but things are getting better by the day.

I've actually had this tune stuck in my head since 1977 I believe, at least the tune to the first verse, I'm not certain if it even has any variation in tune between stanzas, all I know is it haunts me. It never leaves. It's the fault of my sweet little troll sister. She sang it repeatedly from the age of five until just shy of her ninth birthday. Oddly enough she doesn't even remember the song.

Here is my fledgling attempt to "make it my own" as Paula Abdul would say if I were to audition it to American Idol. Sadly I am a few years over the age limit, shucks; I could have been the next William Hung. If you don't know the name Google him, I'm sure he likes to be googled.

This is your muddah
this is your fadahh
we're writing to ya
oh our dear daughta
we'd like to tell ya
that we love ya
but if you don't clean your room we're gonna holla

We are standing
in your room now
things are movin
and things are crawlin
dad looks mad now
I feel like bawlin, if we're not careful we could end up fallin

There's that new game
we just bought ya
it's in two pieces
beneath your fadahh
it wasn't his fault
now just keep readin, I'm pretty sure that I can stop the bleedin'

I see garbage
he sees dishes
we both wish that
we had three wishes
we would wish that
things were cleaner, or maybe we could just be meaner

Maybe we should
get outa here now
it's getting dark and
I feel fear now
what if we can't
find our way out
I don't think that there's a clear escape route

Oh my dear daughta
it's getting hotta
it's been hours
since we've had watta
we are thirsty
and we are hungry
maybe there's a snack under that laundry

Your faddah's looking
beneath the pile
it seems to go on
for miles and miles
I don't see him
And I don't hear him
oh I hope that he's not suffacatin'

I'm going in now
it's been an hour
I've got to find him
he'll need a shower
when I reach him
I will hold him
I just hope and pray that he's still breathin'

Oh dearest daughta
things look real bad
I hope we make it
don't be too sad
if we're unconscious
when you find us
don't forget CPR on me and then your dad

By the way dear
you are grounded
no matter how this
letter sounded
we would rather
toss it all away
than look at this big mess for one more day

Sincerest of apologies to Mr. Sherman . . .

Learn more about this author, Crystal Cook.
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