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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