It's astonishing to me how often the wry, dry, ironic, "seriously funny" poem is earnestly received by readers. This poem is a perfect example. It takes the ol' parent-blaming argument from psychoanalysis to an absurd conclusion, a reductio ad absurdam. It's not about "bad parents" but the part-smart mindset that blames parents for all the bad things in one's life while crediting them for none of the good.
The lilting rhymed quatrains result in a poem that is not heavy satire, but light satire, delicious. It's also a dramatic monologue. I always hear it in my mind as spoken in an Irish brogue, but I suppose a cockney would do nicely. They say Larkin was a jaundiced person but here's proof that he could put a funny spin on his soupuss outlook.
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