He's the patriarch of this tale,
he, of the ex-neurotic wife,
and the current Latina bombshell,
whose love is never at strife;
and the wise little butterball.
She, of the Colombian upbringing,
of the big bosom, and bigger heart,
God-fearing mass rat murderer,
mistress of many mispronunciations.
the wind in our back, not the spit on our faces.
He, the ornithophobic attorney at large,
the one of the sharp wit, and flaming red hair,
Do it yourself disaster, gay, out, and proud,
on an Asian paediatric adventure, of sorts,
with that bumbling sleep-clown-er, looming large.
He, the flaming gay stereotype, or so you thought,
Of the singing voice and the clowning face,
the throwing arm and the too joyful tops;
with a tendency to laugh at baby curses,
and the real live example of a real man who cries.
He, cool dad is his thang, he's ridiculicious,
the comedic foil, to his hyper better half.
Gadget freak, real estate whiz, he'll fix that step;
The kind of dad, everyone would want.
And oh yeah, he is not a pervert.
She, I kept for last, for in her I see me,
hears everything, quadrennially spontaneous,
perfectionism overload, hard taskmaster,
suspect past, auto-tuned orgasmic wonder,
A solid wall of dependability, for the rest to lean on.
She, the fashionista school girl with her heart just right,
She, the intellectual wonder, just found joy in dolls,
He, the "special" one, yet on occasions many, of sharp insight,
He, the romantic, the poet, the man far ahead of his cherubic face,
And she, hopefully not the only underachieving Asian we'll ever know.
This one's a tribute to that most brilliant of TV shows, Modern Family.
