Dads were made to be wrapped around their daughter’s fingers,
Or so I’m led to believe, by her.
And though she’s up town sourcing monkey boys, with
Their bellies out, I’m supposed to approve;
Expected to neglect the facts of life that so
Readily accompany such hunting;
Required to arrive after the mother’s been twisted
Around her digits and feigns all knowledge
Of it until after she’s fled the shed,
And am asked to fast track it.
Well I refuse to be moved; to be complicit in her
Visits; to endorse her performance,
Sanction her thanklessness.
And when told to grow up and allow her to do
As she chooses I’ll assert the virtues
Of virgins, and urge her to