Father was an accountant

and I’m not good at maths. 

He’s not to blame for that. 

The pest controller’s daughter’s 

terrified of cats.

Her wife’s a liberationist 

whose parents bred lab rats.

The therapists’ child 

might thank one of them

for her hand-made shoes,

yet find they stand accountable

for giving her the blues. 

Cobblers’ kids, unshod in the myth,

find parents all accused

of doing their best and failing

whatever the hell they do. 

As Larkin suggests,

it’s no form of jest,

We fuck you up – it’s true.  

With the greatest regret,

despite all you do,

you’ll fuck your own up too. 

Father was an accountant. 

He taught me all about maths. 

The problem and the solution

are equal and opposite facts.

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