| |
Father's Day
In nineteen-ten, on Father's Day,
my real father went away.
My mother took another soon,
he came and brought me a balloon.
That year the bubble burst for them
my mother had just sewn a hem
on her new dress, it was too long
when stepdad came and said 'it's wrong',
you women are so dumb it stinks
a man's brain works and if he blinks
it means that time is given to
the likes of brain-dead dames like you! '
Well, mother took the rolling pin
and aimed directly for his chin.
Twelve teeth rolled out and hit the tiles
they heard him scream for many miles.
And after that my mother said
another man? I'd sure be dead.
And ever since, we play a game
I am called Junior, it's my name.
But annually, on this great day
my mother fills the green/blue tray
with goodies my first father liked
the punch, of apricots, is spiked
with Gordon's best, it is our genes
we drink our gin behind the scenes.
From Britain? Yes, of Royalty
and I am father now, you see
Hairy Wombat
|
|
User Rating: |
|
8.5
/10
(2 votes) |
|
|
|
E-mail this poem to e friend