Fitzmickle Unbends

Mr Fitzmickle, the martinet, Still with an iron hand Rules house and home. Like a peevish gnome He barks each curt command. And he packs the family off to bed Since a wireless 'fan' he's grown And each obeys, while Papa stays And harks to the Test alone. Mr Fitzmickle, the martinet, Sat, last Saturday night, Glowing with pride as Australia's side Rose to the loftiest height. Then, just as the fun grew furious And the batsmen forged ahead, Came a horrible shriek, a click and a squeak; And the speaker went stone dead! Mr Fitzmickle, the martinet, Fiddled, with urgent thumb, At many a screw, in a terrible stew; But ever the set stayed dumb. So up the stairs in his stocking feet, He stole to his small son there, Whose expert hand now took command; And the Test was again on the air. Mr Fitzmickle, the martinet, Frowned at his small, meek heir. 'You'll wait,' said he, 'lest the thing won't gee. Quiet, sir! Sit over there!' And his small son; hugging himself in glee As the game went merrily on Sat listening in with a rapturous grin To the triumphs of 'Billy' and 'Don.' Mr Fitzmickle, the martinet, Seized with a strange wild joy, As the centuries came, with his eye aflame, Clutched at the startled boy . . . . And Mrs Fitzmickle, roused from sleep, Saw a sight to wonder at; Fitzmickle and son, at half-past one, Dancing a jig on the mat. Mr Fitzmickle, the martinet, Said with a sheepish grin, 'Why, Mother's here! Sit down, my dear, Sit down and listen in!' . . . And the small son whispered - when all was o'er, And the winter dawn began In his mother's ear: 'Ma, ain't it queer. Pappas's just like a man!'