The little pig without a tail
was born on yesterday morn.
And as all piggies do, it cried without fail,
its face looking ever forlorn.
About the size of a good loaf of bread
with a round little nose and ears,
short, brown fuzz atop his head,
and eyes welling up with tears.
Its skin was as wrinkled as an October plum,
but the color of an April peach.
The doctor reached down and smacked his bum
and boy, could that baby screech.
In confusion I stood, beside my wife’s face
as the doctor held up my son,
for I had lost my wits, forgotten my place,
the victim of some awful pun.
For a moment I thought I was in a pigpen
watching a piglet be born,
I looked at this creature again and again,
It couldn’t possibly be my firstborn.
For I thought that babies were supposed to be sweet
but mine was nothing of the kind.
Except for the presence of a strong heartbeat,
Human qualities I could not find.
But the doctor confirmed that it was indeed my son
and not some distorted swine.
So I restrained myself, for I wanted to run
and deny this monster was mine.
But my son did improve as he did grow
as most little babies will do.
But I’ve learned my lesson, now I know
The unsaid fact that is true:
We say that our babies are as cute as can be,
and others confirm this thought,
But babies are ugly, painfully ugly,
Deny this you simply cannot.
