Dedicated to my amazing, fantastic and wonderful Dad who I love more than life itself :).
Lend Me Your Eyes
It used to be disgusting,
The tools of mums and clones.
She used to think so lowly of it,
And preferred sticks and stones.
The outside was her kingdom,
And she reigned with welly boots.
Hair bleached naturally by sunlight,
Her songs were bird hoots.
She grew older and some things changed,
Her songs started anew.
She put five colours in her hair
And listened to Rock and Indie too.
But despite her newfound distance,
That little girl you loved dear,
Still hated that make-up,
And desired her skin clear.
It was a vulgar ingredient,
In the mixing bowl of life.
It was a nasty distraction,
From hard work and strife.
You would never have minded,
Should she have painted her eyes myrrh.
But you were proud all the same,
Of her decision to be her.
She wouldn't cave in where others had,
Would not go through the toil,
Of having to coat her delicate skin,
To cover every blister and boil.
Yet some things are irrepressible,
And through unexpected ways,
Your little girl received some make-up
And tried it on that day.
It did not become permanent.
She would not succumb to a mask.
But still, all too frequently,
In her new make-up she'd bask.
She'd colour in her eyelids,
And swipe her eyelashes thick.
Rim her eyes in black water,
And extend them with a flick.
Her attitude would never change,
She was still your sweet baby girl,
But she seemed such a stranger in make-up,
A ruby to a pearl.
You played the dress-up game with grace,
And even inquired about blush.
Only to be told by your wife,
"She's far too young, so hush!"
But clocks tick fast on older wrists,
And her loyal man proposes.
The wedding day came about fast,
And her skin was cream and roses.
Blusher, mascara, eyeliner,
Those once foul things,
She was wearing all of them,
And looked a queen beside her king.
She kissed your cheek on the day
She had a daughter of her own.
She left a smearing of lipstick
And you wondered what she had become.
As she left with her new family,
Tightly wrapped in their embrace,
You realised that you never really knew
Her without her face.
Because though she never wore it,
While her mind was less than moulded,
Make-up was still a part of her life,
Just waiting to be unfolded.
She barely wore it her teen years,
But when she did she looked a flower.
Yet you realised it never fully washed off,
After she took a shower.
Though her skin was clean again,
It wasn't pure or fair.
Your little welly boots girl has gone,
She's still running in ocean air.
Every new layer she'd apply,
Would add to old remains,
And you watched with joy and fear,
As that little girl changed.
But do not cry for her, Daddy.
The little girl is somewhere here.
She's somewhat buried these days
But you have nothing to fear.
Because bonds of blood stay thick,
No matter how intense her eyes.
No matter the clumpy mascara,
That dribbles when she cries.
You're always here to comfort her,
That you know is true.
To share a laugh or smile,
Despite her eyelids blue.
Fathers and their daughters,
Are forever and woven in time.
Creation's oldest bond,
Next to Man and Wife.
So let's make perfect pictures,
And paint them with make-up tones.
Let's make a pact and write our rules,
And carve them into stone.
"I promise to love my daughter,"
"No matter how her looks change."
"I promise to love my Dad,"
"No matter how he stays the same."
So, lend me your eyes, him and her,
These rules we'll observe hereafter.
The everlasting, everlong ballad
Of sweet Daughter and her Father.