What will you be, little polyp of flesh,
When you are born, piping hot and so fresh?
Will you be mother’s and father’s dear treat,
Or will you be nasty and cause them to bleat?
You might be hairy or wear a pink caul;
A midget, a genius, or seven feet tall.
Worshipped by millions, or spurned by the mob;
An artist who chisels on Midwest corn cob.
O, what will you be and just what will you do?
Will I be here, all your antics to view?
And if I am not, you be sure to hereafter
Listen for grandpa’s ethereal laughter.