This is the sad song
Of men and women
Who create offspring
When they don’t like children.
They set their minds up
To repeatedly bear them
To avoid askance looks
And any open criticism.

So they suffer and complain
About what a heavy burden
It is for them to have to
Put up with their children.
Each day with the rugrats
Nets no child any praise
They see not much beauty
In the offspring they raise.

If a soul deprived mother
Never felt love of her own
She has none to spare,
No patience to condone.
The talk of these parents
Is of not having any peace,
No time of their own then,
No feeling of surcease.

It’s as if a child born
Has but few years to grow
Before needing to be an adult
Who will automatically know.
That they must know to parent
The sick adult needy one
Who doesn’t seem to like them
Or anything much they have done.

This is the sad tune of those
Who made many awful choices
But still have no use for any
Of loving, advising voices.
It’s a song too many sing;
The music heart breaking,
Yet few of those parents know
The sense of trust they are taking.