Your baby grows a tooth， then two，

    and four， and five， then she wants some meat

    directly from the bone.  It's all

    over： she'll learn some words， she'll fall

    in love with cretins， dolts， a sweet

    talker on his way to jail.  And you，

    your wife， get old， flyblown， and rue

    nothing.  You did， you loved， your feet

    are sore.  It's dusk.  Your daughter's tall.