Dad dance, track pants, coffee stain couture, School-run superstar but financially unsure, Fuel light, mood bright, singing like I’m rich rich, Meanwhile scanning groceries like “bro… that’s six bucks for chips?” Rain hail, life scale, chaos in surround sound, Still rolling windows down when my favourite beat pounds, Tyden in the back yelling “Dad go faster!”, Aleera choreographing like a tiny dance master. One sock, no crocs, late again somehow, Still walking in smiling like “we got this now,” Lunch box, sports tops, wet towel catastrophe, Modern family living in organised calamity. Gym fees, dance fees, touch footy subscriptions, Every extracurricular got a fresh description, “Only ninety dollars!” — cool story mate, At this point breathing air probably comes with a rate. Still I hype life like I own six yachts, Singing old-school bangers at red traffic stops, People staring sideways while I shoulder shimmy, Mate if joy’s embarrassing then officially bill me. Weekend barbecue burnt half the snags black, Still told everybody “nah boys gourmet that,” Tony rocking sandals with suspicious confidence, Blake giving life advice with absolutely no evidence. Camping chairs, beach air, bad backs by sunset, Talking like we’re twenty while our knees object, One wrong bend and the whole crew groaning, Like a retirement village accidentally went boating. But somehow those are still the best nights, Cheap laughs, dumb jokes under backyard lights, No filters, no flex, no fake online perfection, Just tired happy humans making weird connections. And maybe that’s the trick nobody explains, Joy ain’t yachts and private planes, It’s laughing so hard your stomach gets pain, ‘Cause your mate fell through a camping chair again. I still got dreams and pressure on my chest, Still overthink things more than the rest, But I’ve learned sometimes the smartest thing, Is singing stupid songs while life does its thing. So crank that beat while the world gets weird, Dance in the kitchen like nobody’s here, Bills still due and stress still real, But joy’s rebellion too if you really feel. Because life’s too short for permanent stress-face, Sometimes you need silliness to survive the rat race, So if you see me vibing with a trolley full of bread, Mind ya business mate — I’m romantically overfed.
