The Pathetic Results of A Brief Moment of Someone Else's Pleasure

by Daniel Thomas Moran

THOUGH it's that Sunday in June
Very few poets will bother,
To waste paper and ink, attempting to think
Of a poem of tribute to their Father.

When you're only a young whippersnapper,
It can be undeniably rough
To have to muddle all befuddled
Through all of that nasty Oedipal stuff.

You resent him, then you hate him next,
Then you finally poke out your own eyes,
While Mom seems to always make the best of it,
And then here comes the grand surprise.

While you and Pop spent the many years,
Beating one another to a bloody mess,
The truth finally rears its pimply head,
Wouldn't you know it? Wouldn't you guess?

While you were insistent calling his raise,
And he was as determined to raise your call,
All along it was dearest Momma,
Carefully orchestrating and instigating it all.

So when these holidays arrive once more,
I don't just leap off the tallest bridge,
I just reflect on how much better it might have been,
Had I been raised in an orphanage.

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