Child of a Poet

I was born on a Wednesday – figures:)


The Child of a Poet
Father

Was rather bad

As a dad;

He was a poet

And didn’t we know it;

And, as you can see,

It’s rubbed off upon me.
I had an awful time

As a child

Meek and mild

Learning to rhyme

Was ‘not’ considered a crime

In our household
I never had a normal childhood

I was thought to be up to no good

If I was speaking in prose

And dad would tweak our nose

We had to be on our toes.
So, I am

Like I am

And always will be

I suppose.

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