Soliloquy In Circles
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.
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