What do babies think about,
as they lie there in their cribs?
Do they wonder about what lies ahead,
or about fashion tips for bibs?
Perhaps they ponder the meaning of life,
or will society call them ‘fat’,
or maybe they try to forget that briefly,
they wear their mothers as a hat.
Old ladies like to poke their rolls,
of squishy puppy fat.
Then their expressions change from smiles to frowns,
“Get off y’fuckin’ twat!”.
They’re bought play-mats and swings,
dolls and dumper trucks,
but nothing makes them smile as much,
as drowning bath-time ducks.
Sleepless nights, bottle feeds,
night and day they have the shits.
Pissed off Dads who can’t get near,
their dear wife’s massive tits.
“Bottles best” you hear the cries,
“No breast is always best”.
The dear mums argue with tits either side,
of their new Pri-marni vest.
Five times a night and no, not sex,
the baby just wants feeding.
Dad places a pillow on his head,
To stop his ears from bleeding.
And as i say, sex is no more,
Mum’s pee now when they cough,
So Dads make do, without a screw,
nip to the bathroom to jack off.
Babe is fed, Mum returns to bed,
to Dads snoring; his alarm will soon start beeping,
Mum reads her book and settles down, while that bastards fuckin’ sleeping.
The babe content, and fast asleep
from a day doing sweet F. A.
burped, farted, drifted off,
to sleep their cares away.
And so our lives go on and on,
This i’m sure, i’ll make a hundred wagers.
They never change, they don’t grow up,
They just become teenagers.
Copyright. 2019 Steven K. Beattie