The Baby

The ruddy, puffy baby,
Who knows little of this world
Beyond the confines of its crib,
Bawls incessantly, needing its balms--
Tender strokes and fluffy toys.
It feels nothing but for itself;
It grasps at airy filaments,
Crams random bibelots in its mouth,
Then gurgles out what it can't digest
And bawls some more.
Pity the frazzled nursery maid
Who must listen to and coddle it
And pretend to give it love.