Mother Goose for Grownups/The Singular Sangfroid of Baby Bunting

Bartholomew Benjamin Bunting Had only three passions in life, And one of the trio was hunting, The others his babe and his wife: And always, so rigid his habits, He frolicked at home until two, And then started hunting for rabbits, And hunted till fall of the dew.

Belinda Bellonia Bunting, Thus widowed for half of the day, Her duty maternal confronting, With baby would patiently play. When thus was her energy wasted A patented food she’d dispense. (She had bought it the day that they pasted     The posters all over her fence.)

But Bonaparte Buckingham Bunting, The infant thus blindly adored, Replied to her worship by grunting, Which showed he was brutally bored. ’Twas little he cared for the troubles Of life. Like a crab on the sands, From his sweet little mouth he blew bubbles, And threatened the air with his hands.

Bartholomew Benjamin bunting One night, as his wife let him in, Produced as the fruit of his hunting A cottontail’s velvety skin, Which, seeing young Bonaparte wriggle, He gave him without a demur, And the babe with an aqueous giggle He swallowed he whole of the fur!

Belinda Bellonia Bunting Behaved like a consummate loon: Her offspring in frenzy confronting She screamed herself mottled maroon: She felt of his vertebræ spinal, Expecting he’d surely succumb, And gave him one vigorous, final, Hard prod in the pit of his tum.

But Bonaparte Buckingham Bunting, At first but a trifle perplexed, By a change in his manner of grunting Soon showed he was terribly vexed. He displayed not a sign of repentance But spoke, in a dignified tone, The only consecutive sentence He uttered. ’Twas: “Lemme alone.”

Precaution his folly regrets: An infant gets all that he chooses An infant chews all that he gets. And colics? He constantly has ’em So long as his food is the best But he’ll swallow with never a spasm What ostriches couldn’t digest!
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