The babykin's nose is a pug, so they say; He hasn't a tooth, but he will have some day; So, mother, don't worry concerning the lad; He hasn't much hair, but as much as his dad. The baby complains with occasional yells, Has moments of temper, and violent spells. But even his father, you'll have to admit, Will sometimes indulge in a similar fit. The baby is nothing to worry about; Whatever his troubles, time figures them out; The pug will get better, the legs will get straight; The baby's all right, if you're willing to wait. And so don't you worry, and so don't you fret; The older the baby the sweeter he'll get. Yes, time will correct ev'ry feature of his; But your husband will stay just about as he is. |