I’m glad I don’t have children and don’t celebrate Father’s Day,
So I don’t have to say I like the gifts that come along my way,
The starchy shirts, the puke-green socks, that stuff for cleaning cars,
And all the eager faces saying, Dad, we’ve bought you land on Mars.
I never have to feign delight at books about Top Gear,
Or have to eat what kids have cooked, a parent’s greatest fear,
I don’t get jars of after shave that smell of cat urine,
Or have to tell my eager brood that I like the tie just fine.
So, keep your tins of toffee bits and lotions to make me tingle,
For when you mention Father’s Day, I can safely say, I’m single.