They fuck you up, your sons and daughters
They may not mean to, but they do.
They fill themselves with faults you've never heard of
And add insomnia, just for you.
They won't say please or wait their turn
Or stoop to wear their hats or coats
They make you yell until you get heartburn
But still they're at one another's throats.
Man hands on misery to woman.
Those kids will wring your last drop of health.
Get them out of the house as early as you can
And insist they have kids themself.
With respect to Mr Larkin.
What would you add in your flipped-around version of Larkin's poem?