I’m selfish and sorry but it was high time.
The fragrant mud, your mother’s and mine
wreathed leaves on our bodies as we made you.
Lives had craved but deaths delayed you.
Now , growing bold in that round brown belly
kick all you like at what’s on the telly.
That news just tells us what to say
We dont watch telly anyway.
And if you think your dad’s complicated,
well maybe that’s why we procreated
over the earth and into you.
I didn’t sell. I only grew.
Grew from the mud into all those factors…
Coca-cola, starvation, nuclear reactors,
grew into clouds with hazy eyes…
the cotton wool of compromise.
But you you’ll slide out without a name.
They’ll have no clue how or why you came.
Chances are you’ll scream and burn inside.
Another Jesus crucified.
Even so the fragrant mud will remain
Seeds sow, things grow exactly the same
as they did last time the planet exploded
as glacier gouged and fire eroded.
Out of plague and hurricane, famine and thirst,
the unthinkable holocaust, H bomb and worse
Someone will wander
You’re first