Babycakes
The child came crying to the world, three wise men gathered round.
The first one was the father, beaming with paternal pride.
The next the obstetrician in his blue surgical gown,
And then the cook who said, "you want that baby boiled, or fried?"
The father and his wife exchanged a quick a knowing look,
A mutual cognition of which course would most delight.
Then gazing at the writing babe they both turned to the cook.
The father gently said, "sautéed." The cook replied, "all right."
The obstetrician took a seat (for his job was now done),
To watch the cook assembling all the tools to do the job.
A giant skillet was produced, a small campfire begun,
And soon hot butter's sizzling sounds drowned out the infant's sobs.
Which cries became sharp screams as he was laid into it flat
But quick enough they ceased, and were replaced by such a smell
Of tender cooking meat and melting bubbling baby fat
And spices, for the cook knew how to season children well.
The three spectators watched the chef remove it from the heat
And bring it to the table, set with sharp clean carving shears.
He cut it into tidy bits of tender glistening meat:
A moment they'd awaited for three quarters of a year.
The obstetrician claimed his fee, the tender shriveled head,
The cook then took his share, the infant's supple, crunchy spine,
Then gave one half to mother, sitting gaily up in bed,
The father gathered up the rest, and all began to dine.
The sweet repast was savored by the three men and the mother
The cook collected all the plates and cooking tools and then
He and the doctor took their leave in order that the others
Might start the process going to provide a meal again.