“Let me make my own mistakes.”
The boy said to his father.
“ I want to go and do my thing,
Although I know you’d rather
I had got a proper job,
Like Engineer or Surgeon,
But I must go and try my luck,
And let my ideas burgeon.
So Dad, although I know you care,
You really must release me,
And now that I am twenty-two,
You can no longer police me.”
“Alright then, Son”, the father said,
“Go on and fly the nest then,
But don’t forget that my concerns
Were always for the best then,
For you will find mistakes to make
I never even thought of.
I’ll keep a watch until I know
There’s nothing you are short of.
Remember, Son, when you were small,
I watched you playing soccer,
Through wind and rain we shared the pain
When other teams were Cock-a-
Hoop at having yet again
reduced your team to ashes,
And still I shouted “Come on Lads”
To fuel your futile dashes
I see you still upon that pitch,
Though you may have a wife, Son.
I’ll always be there, shouting,
From the touchline of your life, Son.”