Didn’t I tell you once about the bat-eyed crone
Who delivered you to my doorstep with a muffled creak
I found you with your face made of the same cheesy haggis as the moon
Your eyes like plum pits wanting for buoyant pulp
I tried PediaSure, but molten lava spewed from your ear canals
Similac led to a dozen purple pentagrams etched into your sacrum
Enfamil caused the nails on your middle toes to grow to the length of orchards
They crept round to the conservatory and learned to play a Stradivarius violin
The vibrations would climb back up through your toes and soothe you to sleep
Your doctor didn’t know what to think, but he had some pills for me
I feared that trying you on my breast would be the hardest on you of all
But I needn’t have been so doubtful
Once you latched and suckled, you were engorged into a striped white tiger
The lactation consultant had little to say about the fang marks around my areola
But how you adored her strokes behind your fuzzy ears
I think you’ll stay with me for a good long while.
Lovely