I don't like it, but he's right

Yesterday I heard a conversation
between a father and son; here's my narration:

"Your fashion sense leaves much to be desired
those clothes you wear are beyond being tired.

Your hair style isn't the height of fashion
looking like that creates a false impression.

The language you use is far from tame
the way you talk is a crying shame.

Your reading matter is not the best of taste
it would leave a pure person quite red-faced.

Your choice of music assaults my ears
such strange preferences bring me to tears.

As a couch potato you'd win a prize
get up and about, do some exercise.

Check your waistline, you're overweight as such
bread, rice and pasta; you eat too much.

Nor is it helped by your drinking I note
the gallons of beer you pour down your throat.

I disapprove of the films you watch
as you take up space sprawled on the couch.

When you're not watching films you're on the phone
you've more friends out there than I've ever known.

Also sad is the football team you support
when we know United is the best at the sport.

The way you drive mocks the Highway Code
should you really be allowed on the road?

You only think of yourself it's true,
consider us all, take a wider view.

Worst thing - you never tell mother you love her
such a failing is a terrible slur."

The father responded as well he might,
"I don't like to admit it, but he's right."

17 September 2019