The Judgmental Crowd: A Roast (Poetic Edition)
Welcome to Harper Valley, where the PTA sits high,
Judging every parent with a side-eye and a sigh.
They ride their moral horses, acting like the Supreme Court,
But if they ran the world, we'd all need a support group—and a passport.
"Raise your kids better!" they cry from the bleachers,
But none of them would last a day as real-life teachers.
Let's skip the PTA and try an ETA,
Where someone with scars might actually have something to say.
Try walking in my shoes—just for a minute,
You'll be praying your kid doesn't star in a Netflix exhibit.
You can bleep out "f***," but don't be surprised,
When your kid drops it perfectly—contextualized.
The high-and-mighty, with their noses in the clouds,
Need oxygen masks just to look down on the crowds.
They're bouncers at heaven's door, velvet rope in hand,
But their own halos are propped up on shifting sand.
They'll break you down, then ask why you crawl,
Pull the rug out, then blame you for the fall.
When the broken show up at heaven's gate,
Do they expect God to say, "Sorry, you're too late?"
It's like snapping a stick, then blaming the tree,
Demanding it fix what you broke so casually.
Newsflash: the stick didn't ask for the break,
And the tree's not banishing branches for your sake.
So here's a message for the judgmental elite:
Climb down from your pedestal, wipe off your conceit.
Everyone's got a story, written in scars unseen,
If heaven's just for the perfect, it'll be a party of one—how serene!
So what if someone's battered, begging for grace?
Maybe the real test is love, not keeping up face.
If you're still holding that stick, plant it and wait—
You might just grow something beautiful from all that hate.
Next time you judge a parent, or anyone else in the fray,
Remember: it's easy to point fingers from far, far away.
But it takes guts to get messy and play.
You wouldn't last an hour in my Harper Valley house—
Where we raise kids, not hypocrites,
And love always outweighs judgment,
No matter how loud the crowd shouts.