Sometimes infants’ cries drive me insane.
all wheedling “Mommy!
Pups don’t realize
my paps don’t flow like some tsunami.

Wean from me, and don’t be long,
this has to end, you whelps can’t tarry on
for—don’t get me wrong—
I’m a-gonna need you tots to be weaned, gone.

Squeezed hollow, I’m dry,
there’ll be no drink in teats tomorrow
for they don’t refill fast as you feed
and you won’t get flow.

Tho’ on call as your mother, kids, I never planned
that I’d be just a body to feed on.
I’m not right for the job, I’m overwhelmed, undermammed
for eight greedy gobblers to feed on.

Wean from me, you gorging throng!
This can’t go on … I’m not a dairy farm.
Lord, it won’t be long
‘til it’s gonna be just bottles you feed from.

I must call on another to lend me a gland
to help feed these tots, all my screechin’ spawn.
I am frightened! They’re mobbin’ me, unruly band,
gee, I need this octet of leeches gone.

Eight bairns are a load I’d like to share—
I’m in despair. Wish
I could hit the road, leave my abode
and what’s befallen me.

It’s callin’ me …

[fade]