The High Chair
Grimly the parent matches wit and will:
Now, Weesy, three more spoons! See Tom the cat,
He’d drink it. You want to be big and fat
Like Daddy, don’t you? (Careful now, don’t spill!)
Yes, Daddy’ll dance, and blow smoke through his nose,
But you must finish first. Come, drink it up—
(Splash!) Oh, you must keep both hands on the cup.
All gone? Now for the prunes....
And so it goes.
This is the battlefield that parents know,
Where one small splinter of old Adam’s rib
Withstands an entire household offering spoons.
No use to gnash your teeth. For she will go
Radiant to bed, glossy from crown to bib
With milk and cereal and a surf of prunes.