Baby, baby, baby.
I called you baby.
I called you my little monkey
in hopes you'd grow up to be
wild and free.
You were my sweetie,
you were my honey,
and most of all my sunshine
that I begged pleae don't take away.
You were my reason to try harder,
to hold my chin up high
and my eyes wide open.
To give a little more and not take so much.
Your favorite color would be blue,
and your hair would be yellow,
or maybe black or brown.
Your smile would be wide and you'd ask me things like,
"Do angels sleep on clouds?"
Tell me baby, tell me monkey,
sweetie, honey, sunshine.
Do angels sleep on clouds?
Even one as small as you?
Even one that never took a breath or got to grow?
Do those angels get wings?
Do they get to grow in heaven like you would have on earth?
Baby, baby, baby.
I wish you could tell me.
But I wish you didn't know the answer.