You know, my son, that I’m no griper,
But this is your third spoiled diaper
Tonight; the third I’ve had to bag
And run outside before I gag.
I hear, in darkness, the pied piper.
But what I do not hear is quiet;
Your sweet voice, risen to a riot
At one and three and five each morning,
As soft as a tornado warning;
If sleep came for a price, I’d buy it.
And, while it is some consolation
To rock you through that cry’s cessation,
Just as I feel your body ease,
It arches for a mighty sneeze
That sprays me with some strange potation.
The joys of fatherhood are great,
Not least to lull your gentle weight
Within the cradle of my arms;
And great, the floods and the alarms
Which come so frequently and late.