When Something's Wrong in Candyland

I didn’t see much firsthand
‘cause Mom always told me
“if you ever have trouble with a man
your Sicilian grandma knows the cure
to an abusive husband-
the business end of a cast-iron frying pan.”
Dad respected that, and us.

We didn’t care about keeping up appearances
Because we had nothing to hide
I guess that’s why my gingerbread houses sucked.
Vanilla sugar frosting does not a sealant make
And Twizzlers might taste like concrete, but you can’t
Build a home on candy alone
Though my classmates and their mothers certainly got As for effort.

My house was condemned by the
Gingerbread Homeowners Association
They levied me because my jellied Christmas wreath
Refused to stay on my front door,
My curtains were not the mandatory Santasuit Red
(Available now at your local GingerHome Depot!)
And my roof showed evidence of an infestation
Of wandering hands, possibly grubby children’s paws
However, my house was the only one in the neighborhood
That wasn’t full of hazardous starching chemicals
Why would anyone build candy houses that they couldn’t eat?
Something stinks on the Gingerbread block.

Candyland’s green lawns are crisp coconut
Marzipan matrons wear spun-sugar garments
Feather-light, so they pass inspection
Loving husbands won’t stand for brownie binges
And numbers don’t lie, except on income taxes.
When Miz Sweet steps on the scale, it always balances
In his favor, and either way she loses.
Weighty wives go under knives
Husband and surgeon oft one and the same
He’ll remind her that her shelf life is short
And he’s already had a piece or two
He’ll tell her that he with the most money gets the best lawyer
And a plane ticket to Canada
So if she fills her ass with chocolate
He can just get another box at the candy store.
When your gingerbread house is four thousand square feet
Nobody can hear you screaming.
The spiny gates, the burglar alarms,
The modified Hummers that get one mile to the gallon,
Lock you in as much as they shut you out.
When the streets are made of bonbons and the rivers run deep with bourbon,
The police will patrol the chocolate-and-caramel communities
Because nothing’s greasier than money-slathered palms.
And Candyland’s cops are sweet on cash!
But they can’t afford convictions
Of certain upstanding citizens.

I hate to torture metaphors
I’ll save the gilted goodies for men
Who love their watches more than their children.
Don’t think that sociopathy belongs to poverty
It’s the luxury of those who can afford
To treat people like commodities.

So if I haven’t seen much firsthand
Don’t blame it on Grandma’s frying pan
It’s not about the business end
We just refuse to pretend
That we want anything from Candyland.