I tried to finagle my way out of another
               military campaign, But what could I do
when Palamedes placed my son
               in the path of the plough horses? The tears of my boy,
on being manhandled by that wiseacre, turned from fear
               to grief. I consoled Telemachus, said I’d not be gone long,
that he was boss now. What I missed most on the plains
              of Troy amid the debacle, the death of friends,
the infamous voyage back, was my laughing boy
              with the big brown eyes, the pillow fights, the games
of tag, football, letting him pip me in the hoop race.
             When I did arrive back to my son, the man,
it was right that I should approach him disguised as a beggar. 

(Fragment from the lost poem Telemachus)