I sat at my living-room table
Writing just to keep my mind stable
From the right enters my father
All pumped up and eager
"Set up the karaoke" he would ask
Who knew pressing 'on' was such an arduous task
'9169' he expertly presses
Frank Sinatra is the only person the remote addresses
'And now, the end is near'
**** right, if only I could barely hear
My father turns into a broadway singer
Of every word, he needs to create a picture
For the effort, I give him an outstanding 'A'
But the voice... 'My friends, I'll say it clear'...NAY!
Now he turns to me: 'Regrets, I've had a few'
"WHAT IS THAT SUPPOSED TO MEAN?!" I yell on cue
'But then again, too few to mention'
As if that is supposed to appease my indignation!
Then he enters the 'diarrhoea' pose
The half squat, the clenched fist and the eyes closed
'I faced it all..
And I stood tall..'
'... and I did it my way'
Definitely not the sight of the day
In his mind the crowds, in awe, they cheer
But his audience of one will only cringe and jeer
Nonetheless, he goes on
After all, it is in the spirit of the song!
At the penultimate line, he stops midway
He gave up, oh yay!
But no, my father merely ran short of breath
It is not yet time to adorn him of a congratulatory wreath
He inhales deeply
This is no time to appear weakly!
He now waits for the catch up with the beat
With concentration, he taps his feet
'Yes, it was my waaayyyyy'
And I would have preferred it any other way!