Chicken.

Round and round the garden, like a teddy bear.
An argument with mother and I'm pulling out my hair.
If we go on like this, by the time I'm twenty, I'll be bald
But somehow I don't feel as though I'll live to be that old
The things I used to get myself to sleep keep me awake
Another night of lullabies, and I think my heart will break
Poor mother with her smiling dolls. She couldn't dress them down.
All paint and lace and frills. Of course, her dollies couldn't frown.
I remember going to the woods and counting all the birds
And singing nursery rhymes, back when I still knew all the words
Sometimes I'm Jack or Jill, but mostly I'm the piper's son
Press down too hard and ask too much, then wheee! Away I run.
The milk I spilt pools on the floor, with tears it has been soured
Oh, mother, please believe me. I am nothing but a coward.
I'm the proverbial chicken with a basket for my eggs
Now little red-capped mushrooms pop up between my legs.
I know one thing and one alone, as the new distractions fill me.
If I concede myself again to you I know that it will kill me.