My Dad is perfect, always right.
He always wins when there’s a fight.
His instant answers are correct.
His leadership I must respect.
I dread to say Mum’s not the same.
When things are wrong she gets the blame.
She never knows the way to go.
Sometimes she’s right, but far too slow.
When I have something on my mind
It’s Mum I go to, she’s more kind.
She listens, lets me work it out,
And shares my worries, fear and doubt.
Dad’s perfection, Mother’s blunder.
Which is like our Lord, I wonder?
Peter Dixon