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C J Dennis - Fitzmickle Unbends
Work rating: Low

Mr Fitzmickle, the martinet,
   Still with an iron hand
Rules house and home.  Like a peevish gnome
   He barks each curt command.
And he packs the family off to bed --
   Since a wireless "fan" he`s grown --
And each obeys, while Papa stays
   And harks to the Test alone.

Mr Fitzmickle, the martinet,
   Sat, last Saturday night,
Glowing with pride as Australia`s side
   Rose to the loftiest height.
Then, just as the fun grew furious
   And the batsmen forged ahead,
Came a horrible shriek, a click and a squeak;
   And the speaker went stone dead!

Mr Fitzmickle, the martinet,
   Fiddled, with urgent thumb,
At many a screw, in a terrible stew;
   But ever the set stayed dumb.
So up the stairs in his stocking feet,
   He stole to his small son there,
Whose expert hand now took command;
   And the Test was again on the air.

Mr Fitzmickle, the martinet,
   Frowned at his small, meek heir.
"You`ll wait," said he, "lest the thing won`t gee.
   Quiet, sir!  Sit over there!"
And his small son; hugging himself in glee
   As the game went merrily on
Sat listening in with a rapturous grin
   To the triumphs of "Billy" and "Don."

Mr Fitzmickle, the martinet,
   Seized with a strange wild joy,
As the centuries came, with his eye aflame,
   Clutched at the startled boy . . . .
And Mrs Fitzmickle, roused from sleep,
   Saw a sight to wonder at;
Fitzmickle and son, at half-past one,
   Dancing a jig on the mat.

Mr Fitzmickle, the martinet,
   Said with a sheepish grin,
"Why, Mother`s here!  Sit down, my dear,
   Sit down and listen in!" . . . 
And the small son whispered -- when all was o`er,
   And the winter dawn began --
In his mother`s ear: "Ma, ain`t it queer.
   Pappas`s just like a man!"
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