The Day I Died.

Oh how ironic it is, The day I was born, that day I died.
Mummy saw me, she frowned, Papa wanted me drowned.
There I was in her lap, Taking a little nap, I could feel the restlessness in her body, Her thoughts probably gory.

Then my granny entered the room, Interrupiting the neverending gloom,
I gave her a silent smile, All she did was stare a while, Straight at me; she seemed to look through me.

Soon the doctor entered the room, Carried me off from the gloom,
I could hear my mother’s sobs, Sense my father’s agonizing thoughts.
The sweet nurse hugged me a while, And kept me on a bed so high, If felt a pinch on my hand, In a second, I was in a different land.

God greeted me with great joy, Told me they wanted a boy.