Babies hate me, oh, I swear,
I tickle their noses and touch their hair.
But in return, they scream and cry,
Why me? Oh why, oh why?

Babies hate me, oh, they do,
Their chewed up carrots on me they spew.
They never laugh, they never giggle,
Instead they cry or whine or sniffle.

One day I held a baby small,
It did not yell or sob at all!
I waited, and waited, and nothing came,
“He didn’t cry!” I had to exclaim.

My mother hugged me tightly, proud,
My father yelped for joy out loud.
We notified all of our aunts
and cousins, uncles, our neighbor Grant.

I do not understand it all,
How that baby, cute and small,
Just did not cry on me that day,
A bright, spring afternoon in May.