Year 11 writers
Year 11 writer: Ritchie H (1995)
My Dad
My dad's OK. He's really not bad.
Bit of a kid; a Jack the lad.
Tells the odd joke, some of them witty;
Most of them bad, though. I laugh out of pity.
Joiner by trade, taught by his father,
Runs in the family, but won't run no further.
Wood's not my game, I just can't cut straight.
He has tried to teach me, I won't take the bait.
At times I see him, banging in nails
That go in so level, he just never fails!
He asks me to try, I shouldn't decline:
Wallop! Bang! Bang! Oh, no: Out of line!
But dad doesn't mind, he just pulls it out,
"Don't worry." he says, then gives me a clout.
That's the trouble with dads; mood's never the same.
One minute wild, next minute tame.
We laugh together, we laugh at each other.
He laughs at my height, or lack of it, rather.
I laugh at his baldness but he smiles at me,
"Unlucky, son. It's hereditary."
My Dad
My dad's OK. He's really not bad.
Bit of a kid; a Jack the lad.
Tells the odd joke, some of them witty;
Most of them bad, though. I laugh out of pity.
Joiner by trade, taught by his father,
Runs in the family, but won't run no further.
Wood's not my game, I just can't cut straight.
He has tried to teach me, I won't take the bait.
At times I see him, banging in nails
That go in so level, he just never fails!
He asks me to try, I shouldn't decline:
Wallop! Bang! Bang! Oh, no: Out of line!
But dad doesn't mind, he just pulls it out,
"Don't worry." he says, then gives me a clout.
That's the trouble with dads; mood's never the same.
One minute wild, next minute tame.
We laugh together, we laugh at each other.
He laughs at my height, or lack of it, rather.
I laugh at his baldness but he smiles at me,
"Unlucky, son. It's hereditary."