Being a
Is quite a bother.
You are as free as
With time to spare,
You're a fiscal
With change in your pocket,
And then one mornA child is born.
Your life has been runcible,
Irresponsible,
Like an arrow or
You've been constantly travelin'.
But mostly,
I daresay,
Without a chaise percée,
To which by
Nothing's embarison.
But all children matures,
Maybe even yours.
You improve them
And straighten them dentally,
They grow tall as a
And ask questions you can't answer,
And supply you with
About how everybody else wears lipstick sooner and stays up later,
And if they are popular,
The phone they monopular.
They scorn the
Of their parent's opinion,
They're no longer
Once they find that you're
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.
