Dad’s an insidious misanthrope, Mom,

Though you wouldn’t know of his sin.

Himself he ingratiates slyly with you

And with all of his neighbors and kin.

His nefariousness is apparent to me

For I tripped on it two days ago,

As I entered Dad's workshop in need of a drill

And ended up stubbing my toe.

There in the workshop lay half of my stuff

All scattered in heaps on the floor.

He had stolen my books, my TV, and my lamp,

My shortwave receiver and more.

I’ve heard it’s the job of a father to nurture,

Incrementally building his son.

But this isn’t nurture and certainly not

How filial affection is won.

My son, you malign your benevolent father,

Who has your best interests at heart.

To rip off his son is so far from his mind

That to think it is not very smart.

Your father is buying, and hoped to keep secret,

A brand new computer for you.

To make this gift better he’s busy constructing

Some shelves and some cabinets, too.

So that’s why your father took off with your things,

Your books and TV set, to wit;

He wanted to see, before gluing the panels,

If all of your objects would fit.

This story’s moral, if moral need be,

My darling incredulous lad,

Is to give those who love you a judgmental break,

especially your mom and your dad.