Oh Meccano, oh small and slippery, oh lost somewhere in the carpet, or perhaps behind the sofa
How you foil my palsied touch
How you foil my years-old plan
To keep you hidden in the cold storage room, where you have lain since you were given to my oldest son by my mother, who means well with presents, but once gave me a pink sweater with a picture of a sailboat on it, and it clashed with my mullet
Oh Meccano, oh tiny and difficult, offering promises of wonder but instead proving to be fucking annoying as hell
How your packaging tempts my younger son
How your marketing makes him think he will soon have a new toy car
But all he ends up with is a frustrated father who remembers why he left his career as a watch repair technician behind and instead followed a path that does not involve fine motor skills, and never golf, by the way
Oh, Meccano, oh stupid little wrench and miniscule washers
How the car I built wobbles and looks stupid
How my son, halfway through, started shooting me with his Nerf gun
And will awaken in the morn to be told the Tooth Fairy came and took his Meccano, because that’s what she does on her vacation.
