A poem dedicated to fathers and sons.

When things went not quite wrong
But then again not quite right,
Dad would lower his voice,
Just like a conspirator might,
And we’d grin and smirk
One to the other,
He’d wink and say
“Don’t tell your mother.”

“When it’s brown it’s done, but when
It’s black it’s buggered!” he’d say
As he opened the bin,
To throw the toast away
And he’d take more bread
To start another,
And check the door and say
“Don’t tell your mother.”

Or when he taken apart,
And fixed the Hoover,
But when reassembled
There was a screw left over
He place it in a grimy jar
Along with the others
Put his finger to his lips and whisper
“Don’t tell your mother.”

Now I’m a father
With sons of my own,
And we’ll share chips
On a trip into town.
Or I’ll fix something, and yes,
There will be a bit left over,
I’ll wink and grin and say
“Don’t tell your mother!”