In a bloody mass of who-knows-what
A tiny terror meets the world
The doctor slaps it on the butt
Then gives it to you, warm and curled.
Ten years later it has grown fangs
A whirling aura of disease,
It looks so cute behind its bangs,
But that hair is full of lice and fleas.
It makes a noise that never stops,
A high pitched whine, a piercing cry.
Alas, it seems to call you “pops”
So you cannot wish that it will die.
Someday it will become a beast
That eats your food and drives your car.
All your boundaries will be pushed
Until it knows its gone too far.
And then it leaves, all big and grown
Perhaps to university.
You wonder how the time has flown
Until it moves back in with a degree.
After a while it gets a job,
You get gray hair and shrink a bit,
And then you die and people sob
And people bury you and shit.
Your lives are done, your beast is weaned,
You’ve given all the vital talks.
Now from the grave you proudly beam
And watch the dryer eat its socks.
The Daily Travesty 