Spare the Rod, Spoil a Child, Story Poem
Back in the early '50s, my Dad believed in,
"Spare the rod, spoil a child," his lesson seeping in.
As a young growing kid, I longed for playtime's call,
Believing in the joy of games, both indoors and outdoors, I stood tall.
Mornings meant waking up to breakfast's warm delight,
Then off to the playing field, where dreams took flight.
Soccer games with friends, a ball dancing at our feet,
Laughter and competition merging, making life sweet.
Returning home, it was school's turn to take the stage,
Waiting for the bell to ring, releasing me from its cage.
Quickly escaping, my cricket team awaited outside,
Bound by the love of the game, with passion as our guide.
But my Dad had other plans, a tutor he'd employ,
Armed with a shining black ruler, ready to deploy.
Counting became a challenge, I faltered with each try,
And for every digit missed, the ruler would meet my thigh.
Alphabets came next, a daunting task to undertake,
I stumbled and missed many, inviting the ruler's wake.
With each whack, the shrieks pierced through the evening air,
Neighbors and Mom pleading, a cry for fairness to bear.
But my Dad remained unmoved, adamant in his belief,
That homework must be done, before granting any relief.
Yet one day, a lesson blossomed within my soul,
I rid myself of the tutor, and took my studies under control.
From that day forward, I delved into learning on my own,
No more ruler's sting, my independence fully grown.
I realized education could be a joy, not just a chore,
And with newfound freedom, I soared, wanting to explore.
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