The Grumpasaurus

        The Grumpasaurus

    He rises, slumping heavy-footed
    On the floor above, snarling,
    Standoffish, daring any being
    To even look at him sideways.

    For decades, he renders all
    Lesser creatures meek, helpless,
    Driving them into shells,
    Beneath rocks, under stairways.

    But one day, the terror recedes;
    The aura collapses, exposed as fraud.
    The beast looks less fierce, more sad
    And you say, tauntingly, "Good morning, Dad!"

   
    Wouldn't you like to punch your father for all the times he needlessly menaced you? But by the time you have a good grasp of the manipulative, childish games he was playing, he's too old for you to mess with. Maybe your father didn't play those games. Then he was a good father. Or perhaps you're just not very bright.