They fuck you up, your Mum and Dad.
They may not mean to , but they do.
They fill you with the faults they had
And add some extra just for you.

But they were fucked up in their turn
By fools in old style hats and coats,
Who half the time were soppy-stern
And half at one another's throats.

Man hands on misery to man.
It deepens like a coastal shelf.
Get out as early as you can,
And don't have any kids yourself.

By Philip Larkin

I'm thinking he may not have had an altogether happy childhood.....wonder did he have kids of his own in time?...David, resident poet what can you tell us.

Well, I recognize the name, and I know I've read a few of his poems. I briefly looked him up, but I'd have to do more searching. According to what I found he was a university Librarian. British, never married. No kids it appears, but this poem has a certain e e cummings feel to it, doesn't? I don't know if he was as miserable as he was dry humoured.

Just read E E Cummings....This Is The Garden.

He uses brackets () in a poem.....never saw that before, and boy does he like to punctuate; but liked the piece.

And sometimes he doesn't punctuate at all. And I don't think he ever capitalizes the letters in his name. I'll find some poems of his online. Fun and strange stuff.

Another one from Larkin:

Mother, Summer, I

My mother, who hates thunder storms,
Holds up each summer day and shakes
It out suspiciously, lest swarms
Of grape-dark clouds are lurking there;
But when the August weather breaks
And rains begin, and brittle frost
Sharpens the bird-abandoned air,
Her worried summer look is lost,

And I her son, though summer-born
And summer-loving, none the less
Am easier when the leaves are gone
Too often summer days appear
Emblems of perfect happiness
I can't confront: I must await
A time less bold, less rich, less clear:
An autumn more appropriate.

Philip Larkin

I ....like that one......but there is such sadness too in it for me.