This child of mine is falling
And the future looks quite grim,
Down steep-sided ramps, where hooks and clamps
Will try to fit it in

This heart of mine is calling
And is pleading for a chance,
When the sorting stops, and the baby drops,
Let it be in safe hands

The boxes wait, all made of glass,
With see-through lids and golden clasps
And they each rest on a table,
With a neatly written label

This child of mine is rolling
Through the whirring clicks and clanks,
And it passes by with a muffled cry,
Towards the waiting banks

This heart of mine consoling
For the future yet foretold,
When the baby drops and the glass lid locks
Beneath the clasps of gold

The boxes wait, all made of glass,
With see-through lids and golden clasps
And they each rest on a table,
With a neatly written label