Just a torn of piece of paper sums up how you never care,
He’s your son for Christ’s sake and yet you didn’t want him there.
Even though you stirred his feelings up throughout the childhood years,
Leaving us to pick up all the hurt and wipe away his tears.
Have a drink on me, it said, this shabby shameful letter.
And a fiver in a cheap, crap card. You don’t get any better.
He’s an adult now and a nicer one than you could ever be.
For he may have half your genes, but not your ways, it’s plain to see.
Was it worth all that to hurt me, as you tried to make him choose?
Did you not think that in the end, you’d be the one to lose?
We’ve never fed him any lies, we never soured your name.
But he worked out all by himself you were playing a ***** game.
Now you’re a sad and lonely fool, a worthless also-ran,
And we took a child AFTER he was seven,
And we made him the man.

© Carol Ann Wood