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.