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My father in his golden day

Got so high they lined his way

My mother youthful ripe

Washed his socks, filled his pipe

When they met one harvest day

The dogs all barked - the stags at bay

They rolled around bad-blustering hay

Her hand in his, his in the way

her bad time she tried to mime

but failing that she tried to climb

Through haystack columns, evading slime

But sweat, strong sweat,

leads up fast

to male backclap, thumbs-up crime

And slime and grime no reason to make rhyme

But it does fest sore here time to time

Bad blood not bone turns hearts to stone

The end result this son alone

Reminder of a zenith's depth

And romantic feelings done to death

And love, not hate, makes flesh awake

You fool, you fraud, you foul fade fake

relate to me, not outbursting trick tirade

Told tales of conquest, fabricate

painted lies, face tainted - hate

Enough

When mother died he went away

some say he choked on golden hay.