I didn’t do it. It wasn’t me.
I was doing it all so carefully
I eat the right foods. I’m spare with the cakes.
The wine and the beer, I occasionally take
And yet somehow I have, without any effort
Turned into my father. I really don’t get it.
My children have plotted a future not mine
Without even asking, they’ve taken my prime!
A Grandpa or Pop, Papa or The Doyen.
I refuse to succumb to their unthinking toying
That’s definitely not me! No Sir! I’m too young.
I‘m not nearly finished, I’ve only begun.
The best part of fifty is the new lease on fun.
When you are finally rid of sprogs three, two, one.
It isn’t the gray hair, the spread or the creaking
It isn’t the pauses, the moments, the leaking!
Your children are vicious, they seek to entrap you
They get themselves preggers, oh joy! What can you do?
The fecund monstrosities know just what they’re thinking
Built-in baby sitters for when we go drinking! (Hurrah!)
So far from becoming the cool couple we envisaged
We have now turned back into catchers of spillage
Along with our new roles as moppers of drool
They talk loudly and treat me as I were a fool
So if your children start preparing to nest
Listen to me, I know from experience what is the best
Run, flee, cash your super and head for the hills
Live out those dreams of no more bills
For as soon as you’re settled and enjoying yourself
Your children will put those damned dreams on the shelf!
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