Nursery

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Nursery bitty and painted pink/Pink, like a dahlia, quartz, or kind heart/Nursery bitty, and who would think/The sight of the crib would tear Mother apart?/Poor Mother, she weeps mordant bayonet tears/Against Father’s sweater, she lays them to die/Poor midwife, she listens with sorrowful ears/As Mother wails, “Sweet Lord, I can’t help but cry!”/The pastor comes quickly in negligees black/Ill-equipped for interment, he’s forced to ad lib/The furniture draftsman, he never comes back/For what is a stillborn to do with a crib?





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