Dear Son, ...Your birthday cake batters...

a poem by Rita Joyce Singh, India

Hangnail, bruise, the slightest cut or nick,
Stray dogs, two pedigrees, a cross-eyed pup.

Any, excuse to miss the school and play sick,
Dad, mom, sis, dogs; it took to raise you up.

Homework, shots and doctors, three things you'd hate,
How can we forget, you pretended sleep.

Read Physics, for Geography exam date,
While, from under pillows dog's-tail would peep.

Miss'd knitting needles fix'd your papier boat,
What tore our ear-drums, you called Metal Rock.

Batted fine sixers; box'd sis on her throat,
Then soon, you left home, barrrel.. stock.. and lock.

Happy Birthday! Son, none of this matters,
Love you! And oh! Dad now licks the batters.

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