Ballad of the hungover father / Curtis Strange

Six o'clock in the morning comes all too soon

when just 3 hours prior you were at the saloon.

But a wide awake kid simply does not know

you're in no state to read that Elmo book eight times in a row.

So you flip on the TV, put the kid in your lap

and hope the screen can be daddy as you take a quick nap.
This works for four minutes, possibly five.
Then you're waken to be told it's breakfast time.

So you grit your teeth and smile over the stove,

making scrambled eggs, wondering when you got old.

The smell makes you gag and the heat makes you sweat

as you answer repeated questions with "Not yet" "Not yet".

And you pretend that you're chipper and all full of spunk

to hide from your wife the fact that you're likely still drunk.

You take a shot at 'playing'. Put on the worst puppet show ever.

You get a look of pure boredom as your arms start to tremor.

You throw up just a little on your way to the park.

Lightheaded from walking, things start to go dark.
You make it, but barely, to a long row of swings
where you mindlessly push and take stock of things.

The day is still young, obligations still heaping,

and your childless friends are no doubt still sleeping.

But you somehow pulled through when many wouldn't bother.

That's why you have little doubt that you're an adequate father.