My Future (last laugh)

“Let’s make him an actor,” said Father,
“And he will adventure the stage.”
“A painter,” said Mother, “is rather
What I would prefer him we raise.”
“A lawyer,” said Father, “would please me,
For then he could broker my deals.”
“A doctor,” said Mother, “would ease me;
Then he could hook up some pills.”

Said Father: “Let’s make him a rabb’nate,
A master of scripture to be.”
Said Mother: “I couldn’t endure it
To have Petey preaching to me.”
Said Father: “Let him be a writer;
So often he’s penning the page.”
Said Mother with temper: “Oh bother!
You know it, a writer’s still caged.”

Said Father: “Your son is a slacker,
A quiet yet mischievous geek.”
Said Mother, who’s rather a tasker:
“That’s right – he has all his father’s cheek.”
Controlling parental emotion
They turned to me, seeking a cue,
And sudden conceived the bright notion
To ask what I wanted to do.

Said I: “My ambition is modest:
A clown in a circus I’d be,
And turn somersaults in the sawdust
The audience laughing at me.”
…Poor parents! they’re dead and decaying,
But I am a clown as you see;
And though in no circus I’m playing,
How people are laughing at me!

With apologies to Robert W. Service (1874 – 1958)

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