The Perils of the Pushy Parents: A Cautionary Tale. Boris Johnson
a maths Olympiad
Which venture meeting mixed success
He’d wake them up with cries of ‘Chess!’
When most of us are feeling weak.
Then after half an hour of Greek
He’d keep them in the chairs they sat in,
Switch their books and yell out, ‘Latin!’
Something told him they would star
In ballet or in opera,
So with the zeal of ancient Sparta
He drilled them for La Traviata.
He’d make them play the violin
Then tell them with a sickly grin,
Containing just a hint of menace,
‘February’s great for tennis.
Come and meet your tennis teacher.
Come on, kids, say pleased to meet ya!’
Poor Jim and Molly did their best,
And yet they knew the vital test
For dad, more vital than a course
In how to serve or ride a horse,
Was quenching his hormonal need
To watch his little children READ.
The surest way of pleasing him
Was sitting like two cherubim
In silence and for simply ages
Rustling slowly through the pages.
Until he’d spot them, stop, and look,
And gasp, ‘My word – they’ve got a book!’
He’d hide behind the door to spy.
A tear would glisten in each eye.
He’d hug himself. He’d cut a caper:
‘They’re reading printed words on paper!’
So how do you think his children could
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