Voice of Our Father

Wed scatter at our fathers thunder bark:
Stop that bleating. Go to your lairs. There,
if wayward radio squawked back with rock,
wed hear his awful bellow from the stair,
Turn down that confounded caterwaul!
We felt the rain of his staccato words,
Dagnabbit. What unmitigated gall.
Up and at em! Stir your stumps, sluggards.
Wed bask, though, in his smile like applause
when, tender under bluster, hed exhort,
Brush your snaps. Wash your dirty paws.
Sleep tight. Tribe, hold down the fort.
His icy stare was like an April blast,
a fearsome squall that wouldnt last.