Father Dearest
He almost never mows the lawn,
He oversleeps in bed.
For years he has been overweight,
Topped off with a balding head.
…
He never cooks, he only eats,
Okay, maybe that's not true.
At the least, our father dear,
Can use the barbeque.
…
At the plant or down at Moe's,
He's out most of the week.
Come the weekend, on the couch,
The TV remote he seeks.
…
From sitcoms to the NFL,
He knows his shows back to back.
Beer and nachos both in hand,
His appetite he does not lack.
…
And yet we love him anyway,
For all the things he'll do.
When push so often comes to shove,
He'll always see things through.
…
He'll help mum, bail us out,
Go on adventures far and wide.
Even in some so rare moments,
He'll let ourselves confide.
…
So here's to dad in imperfection,
Because that's the Simpson way.
But we better stop this poem now,
Football's begun to play.