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.