Daughter's observations

A horn is a pompous fellow,
It blows just as it’d please.
Sadly, not what I intended –
Its timber is much too harsh for me.

Spices are these funny fellows
Indeed, they get into my father’s meal.

What do they do to irritate my father?
Do they climb up the frame of our table?
Or do they jump off a cupboard,
Whilst my mother’s busy fixing the meal?

And why I beg, oh why,
Every time my father hears that pompous sound,
A wrinkle forms on his already furrowed forehead?
How come each time he sees some chilli powder in his food,
He runs a mile in heartbeats?

When he returned, he was still my dad
But strangely spoke of meadows and poisonous plantations
And when a horn did blow he spoke
Of starting a demanding job in some wild, remote locations.