MY SON SEAN
I guess when my son Sean was six...or five,
I thought, just like all dads, here is a kid
Who certainly not only would survive,
But be the best at anything he did.
One day I had to undertake a chore
For which I had no taste, and my son Sean.
Cream of the crop, as I have said before,
Was playing there beside me on the lawn
With patience running out, as well as light
I told son Sean to fetch a tool for me.
With little thought of making it polite.
With nothing else to do, his time was free.
I can't, he said, I'm busy, can't you see?
Good God, I shouted, Busy doing what?
Pray tell me. Let me know what that could be.
He shamed me with the answer that I got.
The answer and the lesson rang so true.
But Dad, there's so much playing I must do.
MY SON SEAN
(A regrettable sequel)
All fathers love their sons a lot.
I'm no exception, no I'm not.
And when he was a little tot,
My good son Sean, or so I thought,
Would be, of ties, a real Ascot.
I beamed with all the joy he brought,
For he was everything I sought.
Of course, I thought that my son ought,
To be the genius I was not.
Although in math he wasn't hot,
He showed that language was his slot.
At six, he read of Camelot
And of his hero Lancelot.
So, as reward for him, I bought
A beagle pup for his mascot,
And he would name him, should he not?
I told him just to take a shot.
I knew it as I watched him squat,
And knowing that his mind was fraught
With names like Good Sir Lancelot,
For the exotic he would opt.
I thrilled in wondering just what.
But then I trembled, quite distraught,
When looking up. the little snot
Said, Dad, I know, I'll call him...Spot.