Congenitally Clumsy

Congenitally Clumsy

I'd like to say at the outset that I love my father dearly

but he is congenitally clumsy.

A centenarian wrecking ball of a man.

Poor eyesight combined with sausage fingers

 leads to overturned lamps and angry splinters.

He stands on cats, he frightens bats.

This man is an absolute nightmare in different hats.

3 in the morning when most men sleep

 he is stalking aardvark in stockinged feet

 or at least that's what it sounds like.

At dead of night a lightly tossed walking stick.

As I march up the hallway I point at the mirror

 "you fucking prick"

As a Bipolar Bastard if I don't get my sleep 

I'm liable to murder

if I hear so much as a bleep.

My name is called, I'm ready to scald.

Oblivious to the nuisance caused

 he proceeds to interrogate me with a bit of bite.

When I return to my room I'm a bit of a sight.

With the wind rattling the letterbox

And Johnson stalking the streets in his 

"Get Brexit done" Christmas socks 

it doesn't take much to set me off.

The Dawn Chorus. 

Oh please for fuck's sake, please don't bore us.

I feel sick, everything and everybody is getting on my wick.

I turn out the light in the hope of a little respite

 then crash, bang wallop

 I hear the saintly, patient man having a fight.

I venture out to find that he's only gone and decided to fly a kite

 in the middle of the night 

or at least that's what it sounds like. 

Shite.

He must be clumsy because he sired me.