The Young Mother

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Sixteen is too young to be a mother.
The best age? Any other.
Two months ago I turned my age,
Easy—like the flipping of a page.
I don’t much approve of parents young:
At that age, life away is flung.
But now I have one of my own,
A baby, only three months grown.
The first sight of him, all wrapped in blue,
And my heart away from me flew.
But oh! Sometimes he drives me crazy
And I start to wish he was more lazy.
No words can describe what I was feeling
When I came home and found him hanging from the ceiling.
Or the first time that he spoke,
It was hardly more than a croak.
And when I walked out the store I don’t think anybody heard
When I said to myself; “Congratulations! It’s a bird.”





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