Being a father
Is quite a bother.
You are as free as air
With time to spare,
You’re a fiscal rocket
With change in your pocket,
And then one morn
A child is born.
Your life has been runcible,
Irresponsible,
Like an arrow or javelin
You’ve been constantly travelin’.
But mostly, I daresay,
Without a chaise percée,
To which by comparison
Nothing’s embarison.
But all children matures,
Maybe even yours.
You improve them mentally
And straighten them dentally,
They grow tall as a lancer
And ask questions you can’t answer,
And supply you with data
About how everybody else wears lipstick sooner and stays up later,
And if they are popular,
The phone they monopular.
They scorn the dominion
Of their parent’s opinion,
They’re no longer corralable
Once they find that you’re fallible
But after you’ve raised them and educated them and gowned them,
They just take their little fingers and wrap you around them.
Being a father Is quite a bother,
But I like it, rather.
