5417 Head
My son, a whirlwind, a blur of motion,
A heart of gold, but lacks all notion
Of listening ears, or a mind that obeys,
A constant test, in countless ways.
He'd scale the moon, if he had the flight,
A spirit wild, a mischievous light.
But "No!" is a word, he barely comprehends,
A stubborn streak, that never ends.
NEC's shadow, a constant fear,
Made me a softie, throughout the year.
No spankings, no harsh, or angry word,
Just gentle guidance, softly heard.
But patience wears thin, as the years unfold,
And "Little 5417 head," a story untold,
Escapes my lips, in moments of strife,
Reflecting the strain, on this weary life.
He'll grow, I know, and learn to see,
The value of listening, and empathy.
But for now, I cherish the chaos he brings,
This whirlwind of energy, that life truly sings.
Copyright © David Lawrence | Year Posted 2025
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