Sonnet to my Father

Old Shakespeare, when he said it, said it well.
The words dripped off his pen like honey gold,
with purity like that of distant bell
rung on a wint'ry morning clear and cold.
A justice, he would say, with capon lin'd,
has fair round belly and a formal beard
He plays his part with vigor, unresigned
and, I might add, stays to his wife endeared.
Oh, father mine, you taught me from the first
To use my words for good and ne'er for ill.
I wish to write, though I am not well-versed,
The message dribbling out from modern quill.
And so, ere I speak words, I say them true,
A mirthful, merry day of birth to you.