I’m four months old,
With a permanent cold.
All this snot is just for you.
I’m wriggling around,
To a familiar sound,
That’s right – I’m up to my hairline in poo.
I’m always awake,
It’s for your own sake;
I use the daytime to practice not sleeping…
Your bedtime routine’s a farce,
Stick your ‘shush-pat’ up your arse,
Only another year or so of teething…
I’m full of amazing smiles,
My limbs suddenly go on for miles,
I’m going through one almighty growth-spurt.
I can hold my head up high,
Pull your hair and go for your eyes,
I’m a chunky little tit-puncher and a flirt…
You’ve bought me ENOUGH bloody toys,
Including about thirty that make noise,
Don’t you know we’re coming out of a recession…?
Oh, and don’t bother with bed tonight,
Coz I’ve forgotten how to sleep at night,
Welcome to the four-month-f@*k-you-sleep-regression.
Yes, I’m four-months old,
With impressive thigh-rolls,
You’ve fed me well; I can commend you on your boobs.
I’m no newborn anymore,
No more leaving me on the floor…
Thank f@*k for the bastard jumperoo.