Poem: A Father To His Son

A Father To His Son

O child, wee child, come sit by the fire.

Thou may’st be whatever thy wild heart desires.

For thy life is a carpet that spindles before,

And an ocean that tickles the strangest of shores.

Oh, Father! Good Father, thou dost my heart good!

For I wish to be king of a land past the wood.

I will rule with great justice. The poor shall rejoice.

And they’ll praise my good name in a glorious voice.

So sorry, my child, but it brings me great pain.

Thou shan’t be a king, for thy blood is too plain.

For thy mother and I, we were cousins, you know.

T'is why you walk sideways and your speech cometh slow.

Oh Father, my father, if truth thou dost speak,

A knight I shall be, and it’s honor I’ll seek.

I’ll vanquish my foes with a virtuous sword.

And they’ll sing of my vict’ries around a great board.

O, nonsense, my child why can’st thou not see?

The life of a knight is no good life for thee.

You’re cross-eyed and stupid, and shaped like an egg.

You haven’t a chin, and you piss down your leg.

You’re feeble of mind and soggy of tit.

We don’t feed you cheese, for you scream when you shit.

You're useless and fleshy, and smell like a wharf.

You're beaten by Buddhists and taunted by dwarfs.

Thy forehead slopes o’er, and your back hath a hunch,

You fart in the tub and you can’t take a punch.

T’was only a fling, but two nights made a wrong.

So back in the attic, that’s where you belong.