I heard the thump and yelled out “D’oh!”

You’d think that a deer by now would know,

How many years have roads been there?

Still, a female deer for the pantry was rare.

Venison on the menu again, Hooray!

I imagined it with a drop of chardonnay.

Poached in a golden apricot sauce?

My son will call me a snob, of course.

A name that I hate, and he knows…

I call myself a gourmet. I suppose.

Far from a snob, I’m an average Joe,

I always seem to take it, I know,

Go along with his caustic wit

I really long to run away from it,

But to run would only ask for more

So I try a small needle in the jaw,

“The Lip” I call him, pulling a thread

of revenge, playing games with his head,

Although I can never go too far,

As he always calls me “Lah de Dah.”

Just because my wallet is blue

And always holds a C-note or two.

Following my inheritance it’s been so

Hard to show him I’m still a poor shmoe.

Every day, when it’s time for tea,

After a drink or two, to mellow me,

I argue with him, and try to jam

His signals – they charge me like a ram.

He’s a born and bred rebel, a one-way track

He’ll pick any subject that will bring us back

To the one place we always seem to go,

To tell the truth, I think he wants my dough.