That’s my new grandson waving his little arms over there
second blue blanket on the left, kicking his tiny feet:
he looks just like his father. They say you can’t see
character until a child is past the terrible twos
but I think you can just by the way they cry or don’t.
His father is a pleasant man, always was smiling
even if he didn’t —
You delivered yesterday, by the look of you.
Is yours that little girl, pink blanket over by the door?
Very nice: such delicate features. They say you mustn’t treat
girls different from boys; I think that’s a pile of poop.
Why, little boys are always moving roughhousing playing;
little girls are quiet, sensitive, introspective. I mean
you can see the difference even in these little babies:
yours is a girl, ours is a boy, and it isn’t just the blankets.
Look at the hands on our little guy: fingers like little sausages;
your little girl has such delicate fingers probably be an artist
or pianist. Our little guy will play in the NHL
make a million before he’s twenty; your little girl,
no offence, but she’s a girl:
if she plays her cards right, she’ll marry a rich guy
like my grandson and have a good life.
You can tell she’ll be pretty:
that’s a great advantage for a young woman.
Makes up for being female — awful challenge
in this world of ours; who knows why.
But my grandson, now — Nice meeting you —
Strange woman: never said a word; just left.
Some people, no matter how nice you are to them —
and I spread it on pretty thick:
kid’s plain as a stick, like his mother —
some people are just rude, and that’s a fact.
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