Soliloquy in Circles   

 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.