Just like us --
Our litle babies,
our treasured children,
confound us:
they grow and become
pre-pubescent papillae
in the foggy
forenoon of fornication.
They f--k you up, your mom and dad,
They may not mean to, but they do.
They fill you with the faults they had,
And add some extra, just for you.*
I never chose you
as my goddam parents!
(so goes the youthful cry of blame)
You think WE had any choice, kid ?
So, too, it seems, we're stuck with you:
in the end, it's all the same.
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* Philip Larkin, British poet. Awkward, dangerously good.
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