Coming-of-age speech

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Somebody else's son standing tall as he receives his diploma. The fucking bastard. (Faces pixilated to conceal identities of the guilty parties.)

In the wonderful world of fatherhood, aka Being a Dad, one comes inevitably to a time when one's belovéd son decides to fly away into the Real World on wings of his own feathering. 'Tis a time of tears and a time of pride. There stands the fruit of your loins: tall, straight, confident, well-dressed, educated...and most of his acne has healed, by golly. So many things one wishes one could say go unsaid; so many words of wisdom languish unspoken. So many tongues are bitten.

One is, after all, a man. Men don't say mushy stuff.

(Except in very bad Adam Sandler movies.)

One does, however, create a Coming-of-Age speech in the privacy of one's own cavernous skull. The speech echoes and clatters between one's ears and behind ones red-rimmed eyes one looks proudly at one's son.

The Speech[edit]

(Translated by Nigel Limberthing of the Leamington Department of Pathos.)

When you were just a tot my son
You never followed anyone.
In school you gave the teachers hell,
And gave me some at home as well.
Now your own seas you wish to ply --
Goodbye, goodbye, goodbye, goodbye.
~~
At nine you started cigarettes
(Though that gave me the drizzlin' shits)
And soon moved on to grass and beer.
I counseled you; you would not hear.
Now from the nest you're bound to fly --
Goodbye, goodbye, goodbye, goodbye.
~~
You left the class at seventh grade
Thinking, I guess, you had it made.
I sent you off to stricter schools;
You got kicked out by breaking rules.
Unlettered still, you're quite the guy --
Goodbye, goodbye, goodbye, goodbye.
~~
And now you're all of seventeen:
A lying thieving libertine.
You've found your home out on the street,
Where you deal crank to make ends meet.
You've hung your family out to dry --
Goodbye, goodbye, goodbye, goodbye.
~~
Your arms are bruised from slamming meth;
Your twitching eyeballs forecast death.
Young man, you'll not see twenty-one,
Which gripes my guts -- it ain't no fun.
Time's running out, yea, time doth fly,
So say it now: Goodbye, goodbye.