Everything looks perfect in a Silver frame, But after the flashlight nothing would change, Dad would plan his itinerary for the day, Flick a shilling and tell me to go away, He always played himself at chess, But would keep the pawns in the Ivory scabbards, Mum would find company in loneliness, Outside with the squirrels she took years to tame, Till Dad would shoot them when there was no more game. I remember this particular squirrel, It never hesitated to approach my Mum, And it was afraid of its shadow from the Autumn sun, It never came back when Dad fired his gun. I remember the well dressed lady with the crooked smile, She would smell of musk and smoke Cafe creme, She always came round Sundays at six, While Mum was at mass keeping up appearances, Dad would walk in a talcum cloud, And cackle at her every word aloud, He would put our family portrait face down, The King of bastard pawns ashamed of his crown, She would sit in Mums Walnut chair by the fire In all her finery and Persian silk attire, Acting as if they had no cares in the world, Until the cuckoo called then the cuckoo would flock, As the hands of time would push her away, And Mum would come back to finish cleaning at 8 O clock. Dad would give me a sugar plum, Then tap my shoulder and say 'good boy', I would go upstairs and read Hemingway to Mum, She held me close and would say 'My beautiful Boy'. The pawns never left the scabbard, But the Squirrels came every now and then, On my 8th Birthday Dad played me at chess, My pawns helped me to beat him, And Mum that day wore a summer dress, She too knew how to defeat him, Dad left at six for a while, My Family Portrait, Everyone now shoulders back, Wait for the light, And smile !