Soliloquy In Circles

Being a father
Is quite a bother.

You are 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 a javelin
You’ve been constantly travelin’.

But mostly, I daresay,
Without a chaise percèe,

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 parents opinion,

They’re no longer corralable
Once they find you’re fallible.

But after you’ve raised them and educated 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.