As if that is something to be ashamed of
‘Tis a strange World that we live in today.
Young Joe has no interest in sports or football
He’d rather go to the park by the bay
And watch the seagulls by the park bench tables
Squabble for scraps of food the picknickers throw away.
Joe is nineteen he doesn’t have sisters or brothers
A fine young poet with words he has a way
His Nature poems original and special
That’s what the poetry critics of him say.
The other fathers talk of their sons sporting prowess
My son ran well, my son played a fine game
But Bill he never talks about his son Joe
As if writing poetry is a thing of shame.
As if writing poetry is for women only
The redneck father has a cultured son
He doesn’t feel proud that his son is a good poet
And that a prestigious poetry prize he’s won.
Bill son Joe is a poet of rare talent
With which the father he is not impressed at all
He’d much prefer that he were a good sportsman
Good at athletics, boxing or football

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