You told me you were a cowboy; I called you John Wayne. You said you were off to work; there were dragons to be slain. You taught me how to swim; I believed you were a merman. You fixed a creaky door; "my favourite handyman".
You could soar with the sunrise and dive like the moon. You knew everything there was to know, and you were a Christmas day tycoon.
But I've never seen you ride a horse, and fantasy makes you yawn, I can swim for myself, And I heard you were proven wrong?
Diving hurts your back, and soaring's not my thing. But you'll always be my superstar, no matter how we're growing.
For my dad, even though I now accept that he can't fly.