He's supposed to be our son, our hope and our pride,
In him all the dreams of our future abide,
But whenever some act to his credit occurs
I never am mentioned, the glory is hers,
And whenever he's bad or has strayed from the line,
Then always she speaks of the rascal as mine.

When trouble has come she will soberly say:
“Do you know what your son has been up to to-day?
Your son spilled the ink on the living room floor!
Your son broke the glass in the dining room door!
I am telling you now something has to be done,
It is high time you started correcting your son!”

But when to the neighbors she boasts of his worth,
It is: “My son's the best little boy on the earth!”
Accuse him of mischief, she'll just floor you flat
With: “My son, I'm certain, would never do that!
Of course there are times when he's wilfully, bad.
But then it's that temper he gets from his dad!”