FUN

My mother told me when i was young,
about a certain thing called fun.
Fun, I would find she said,
in stories and play while i was still Ted.
But when i went to school,
I became mischievous Ted Toole.
Fun she'd say i would seldom find,
in the silly, forgotten play-things of mine.
For, mirth, I'd get most right,
from jest with friends and fight.
And then some day, I'd be a man.
The earning hand, for milk and bran,
And Pun would no longer rhyme with Fun.
A bashful wife and a blithe son,
would qualify as my sole life.
For whom day and night, I'd strive.
Then the only meaningful joy,
would come from making love,
and playing with my son's toy.

As time goes by, with work I'd wry.
No more love, only abundant sly.
Bad habits would then seem fun,
very different from toys, family and Pun!
Opium and beer with an empathetic peer,
would then be an indulgence so dear.
so much, so clear, still fear.
'Was ever my wife so near?'
A conflicted nay would break the tipsy.
No fortuneteller, no gypsy,
needed to tell me, I'd live no more, no better.
It was what struck me when,
I coughed up blood with some phlegm.
I had, what was my worst fear,,
the deadly, vicious, Cancer.
Hell broke loose and i broke down.
Every passing hour, got me wan.
Until finally, post seven days,
There on my bed, I'd be dead, lay-
.....

'What a waste!' I'd say,
from innocence to insolence to pestilence!

Now, for the anecdote.
A scholar, ages ago wrote:
"Fun isn't as Fun they say,
'Tis the weapon of At'e."