Designer Baby
How am I meant to feel
It's the question of my life
From being so happy
To crying in times of strife
To have a baby
Or not have one
It’s the golden question
It seems to have become
I have now decided
Two week since I wrote
That the baby thing
Is kind of a float
I went to see a doctor
Who put a wand up inside
My womb was crying
It could no longer hide
She said we’d be fine
And be able to conceive
Naturally she added
You wouldn’t believe
Just before we left
She called us back in
To the tiny white room
Where it did all begin
You know,
She said
I can make it designer
Blue eyes or brown
But maybe not you red hair
You don’t want it to mistaken for a clown
So blue eyes we choose
And basic brown hair
The baby in the end
Probably won't care
We didn’t want it to have creativity
Turns out its more problematic
Then you think it would be
Years at art school
Painting into the night
The fumes will make them high
High as a fucking kite
But
Like every parent will say
It really doesn’t matter
As long as they’re happy
The rest will fall into place
But the naive parent thinking
Is that everything will be just fine
Little do the know
That there mother could rhyme
A strange thing happened when I did give birth
I couldn't stop the rhymes
It was kind of a curse
The young child didn't understand
Why its mother was so
But then realised she went to art school
And then it made sense
The designer baby turned out to be a massive expense.