I Can Smell Liquor On Your Breath

When it comes to you, I have no patience left.
You're drunk, I can smell liquor on your breath.
You're only seventeen and this makes the third time you've come home drunk.
The last time you hit your mother, I had no idea that I'd have a son who's a punk.
You used your last get out of jail free card.
This time I'm going to come down on you hard.
You're grounded for six months, you can't visit friends, watch TV or drive.
You drove home in your condition, you're lucky to still be alive.
I'm getting pretty sick and tired of having my patience tested.
And if you ever hit your mother again, I'll have you arrested.

(This is a fictional poem but sadly, it's reality for some people.)