Our Father, who’s out in the shed,
today we’re sorry, for some things we said.
Giving thanks, to the provider,
we support Dad, as our rank outsider. 

Dismissing flatulence and burps,
ignoring the way, he dribbles and slurps,
it’s quite clear, he’s less than regal.
In a Dockers’ house, he’s merely an Eagle. 

Don’t forget him on Father’s day.
Get him a gismo, to keep him away,
down in the shed, where he belongs,
dressed in new undies, hankies and thongs. 

A doover-lacky ought to do.
He needs things to fix, to bolt and to screw.
First to the wall, then to the floor,
up on the bench top, right next to the door. 

His special day; show him we care.
We love him,    (to spend lots of time down there).
A toaster, and jug, just for the shed.
They should do the trick. He’ll leap out of bed. 

Every day, out of our way,
Yet still at our call, when there’s bills to pay.
Buy an old fridge, a lounge and telly,
a home brew kit, to comfort his belly.

Trust in father to weedeth our plants.
for Mother it is who weareth the pants;
who cracketh the whip, and calleth the shots;
reigneth supreme, to tie Dad up in knots. 

“Dearest Father, deep in manure,
In love, and infection, always so pure.
Man of the moment, man of steel.
Manifest in compost – more than appeal. 

On this day, in this September,
We’ll pamper you, and also remember,
aroma aside, we won’t turn our nose up,
‘cause we want your loot, when you turn your toes up.”