My Son, Lancelot
My hero of late is my son, Lance.
He's nearly eight years old.
No one can tell him who he is.
My son, you see, already knows.
When others seek to change him,
He clings firmly to his way.
He's not afraid to be himself,
No matter what you'd say.
He's not bound by conformity
He's not hindered by your thought
He likes pink and he likes dresses
he plays with sisters toys a lot.
He wants to be a cop someday.
He wants to be a teacher, too.
To marry one of several girlfriends,
that he met at school.
He's sweet and he is sensitive
He's got a heart of gold.
He'd never leave a fellow friendless
or homeless in the cold.
I know these things with deep conviction.
His compassion is his guide.
He'll be the sort of loving man,
a wife needs by her side.
Of all the things my son may be,
and those that he may not.
I'm proud to call myself his father.
He is Arthur, he is Galahad, and Lancelot.
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