Fathering (2004)

Surely this exercise, my friend,
Schools an errant son inside this
Hand: Only eight beats to a line
And only fifteen lines to get
Say it right -- heavens, I’ve wasted
Half my chance! What a chore to haul
Down eagles here, to leash the tide,
To wrap a diaper round the rant!
How can so little said say all?
Can’t be done!the wild son fumes.
My brogue is meant for bigger seas.
But then a deeper voice assures
Me that this work is good, even
When the conceit of trying fails.
Son, he says, each cross needs its nails.