Three Weeks After My Son's Birth
Today, I want to kill my friend,
who never means to condescend.
His daughter never counts a sheep,
but my devil child will not sleep.
His child eats without complaint.
I force feed mine with thick restraints.
Her appetite can make me weep,
but my devil child will not sleep.
With red-rimmed eyes, and not unplanned,
my son will win his daughter's hand.
Advice he's given, he will reap,
but my devil child will not sleep.
Today, I want to kill my friend,
who never means to condescend.
His daughter never counts a sheep,
but my devil child will not sleep.
His child eats without complaint.
I force feed mine with thick restraints.
Her appetite can make me weep,
but my devil child will not sleep.
With red-rimmed eyes, and not unplanned,
my son will win his daughter's hand.
Advice he's given, he will reap,
but my devil child will not sleep.
The secret of poetry is cruelty.--Jon Anderson