No child of mine, I used to cry
Before the stork had fluttered by
Will ever throw a temper fit
Or bite, or scratch, or whine, or hit
Or wear a diaper till he's three
Or sit for hours and watch T.V.
Or dawdle so he makes me late
Or leave his spinach on the plate
Or act, in short, like other kids
Who've made their parents flip their lids
But with the patter of baby feet
Are 40 million words to eat.
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