by Nick Gisburne
Her gift is one I hoped I’d never see,
A smile to say, “Prepare yourself to die.”
A thousand bad vibrations, all for me.
The best of my excuses fail to fly.
You’ve heard about betrayals at the birth,
Of bouncing babies nothing like the dad,
The mother swearing blind, for all she’s worth,
A stupid one-night stand was all she had.
But that is not the tale I have to tell.
This infant is unquestionably mine.
I’ve hidden I’m a closet werewolf well,
And would have told her, somewhere down the line.
I waited, but it always seemed too soon,
And now our son is howling at the moon.
