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My grandson is a screamer; a most vociferous tyke
Banshee blood flows through his veins; tis truth, I swear, not hype

His lungs are sacs most voluminous, makes blood curdle with his screams
Know not what it is he wants that could make him feel serene

First thing when he awakens, in light of day or dark night
Declares his belly’s empty; has prodigious appetite

But even with a belly that’s fed and full and firm
Receives not the satisfaction for which he howlingly yearns

With strongest predilection declares he must be fed
Try to burp him halfway through and he’ll scream to wake the dead

I know it is not easy when you cannot say a word
Still, crazy caterwauling I fear can get on my nerves

Where is the cooing baby? That nipper from fondest dreams?
I’m sure he’ll emerge someday but for now just mostly screams

Can’t be easy transition, change from womb to outside world
Ninety days is awfully short for placidity to have unfurled

I will keep on smiling, though he screams with deafening blasts
For even a howling grandson is blessing unsurpassed

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