by Barbara Ann Bishop
Sunday, January 13, 2002
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A child is like a brand new toy.
The new wears off when they reach two.
And heaven help the mother of a boy,
He'll break your heart and leave you blue.
The girl he'll pick is never good enough.
She'll take your boy and move away.
They'll come to see you, it is not emough.
All the while. you keep hoping he will stay.
Then along comes the granchild to take,
The place of the son who grew up too soon.
He loves the fine things his grandma can bake.
He runs and plays till the clock strikes noon.
This child is like a brand new toy.
Now aren't you glad you had a boy?