#56 To My Father

Father's Day

To My Father, On This,
The Occasion of his Unemployment

Shall I compare thee to an ATM?
Thou art more wealthy and more generous.

While some do scheme and hoard and claim, (Liz)
Their actions should not the good child shame.
For to a son raised well and true,
You’re more than just a cash-drive-thru.

Your awesome virtues are many and great,
Your achievements so numerous birth to date,
So well known are you, your primacy prime,
That to touch on you here’d be a waste of good time.

Let’s focus instead on the dutiful boy,
The one you call “your pride and joy”,
Whose happiness lies only in serving his Dad,
Unlike that other, oh well, too bad.

Only one child is keeping your name,
Unlike some who one might blame,
With deserting us all for Iowaness,
(Hint hint, think pricey wedding dress.)
But let’s not get bogged down, I digress.

This poem’s for you on this day of lament,
(Not many words rhyme with retirement.)
Not yours of course, but Exxon’s see,
(Nothing rhymes with Exxon, gee.)

Not yours of course, but ExxonMobile’s
(No words, just a prefix, think -actics, profil-)

Not yours of course, but Standard Oils’
Which brings us of course to the kid and the moils.
(Yeah, well it sounded better than “kid with the boils”)

Remember him to his Mother dear,
He’s off spreading happiness, joy and cheer,
On this your final day of work,
When you start reaping that final perk!

Which reminds me now of a bit of advice,
Passed from son to father since the age of ice:

Enjoy your new life,
Fill’t with ease and plenty,
Make the most of your days,
Make them joyous and heady.
Live to the fullest, you’re young and you’re ready.

Spend your days at the pool,
Sipping Scotch ‘neath the fronds,
And for Mom’s sake go easy on trophy blonds.

And when time’s past and you’ve lived all you’re gonna,
Remember your son, not the Iowa-shoguna,

And when you shuffleboard off that mortal coil,
Remember I still need the fruits of your toil.
So make sure you leave the number, Dad,
Of the guy not to call,
(Though morally bad)
And what not to tell him,
So I know how to keep,
Those pension checks coming,
Week after week.


Love,

Julius Augustus Romulus

(which I know you would have named me if Mom hadn’t gotten in the way)