From every orifice, they spew and leak.
They puke, they mewl, they dribble, drool, and squirt—
Wee vandals who aspire to smear the reek
Of soiled diaper on your blouse or shirt.
They learn to crawl, walk, climb, and fling about
The breakables you’ve safely stowed away.
They learn to talk, and soon start blurting out
Those words you didn’t think they’d heard you say.
With adolescence comes yet worse bad news.
Their eye-rolls say they wish you’d just drop dead.
You hate their music and the friends they choose.
You should have gone for dogs or cats instead;
They’d cost you less and cause less aggravation.
Hooray for sex, but down with procreation.
Chris O’Carroll has been a Light featured poet, and his poems have appeared in other magazines including Angle, The Asses of Parnassus, Literary Review, Measure, and The Rotary Dial, as well as The Great American Wise Ass Poetry Anthology and Poems for a Liminal Age (published in support of Doctors Without Borders). He did the spotlight essay on Brian Allgar for this issue of Light, but what he really enjoys is writing about himself in the third person.