Poetry

Baby Thirteen

Baby Thirteen

Baby one was pale,

Pale as snow.

Her face was sweet,

Her cheeks did glow.

Baby two now,

And what a dear.

Perfect little hands,

You’d pay to see her.

The third baby,

She was kind.

Kind eyes, so blue,

Hard to find.

Baby four came along,

Unique and pure.

Nothing to declare,

Not one bit obscure.

Baby five had the fairest hair,

Blond and beautiful.

Her mother, she was proud,

Their family was honourable.

The sixth baby now,

She loved a cuddle.

Safe and secure,

Yet part of a huddle.

Baby seven had dark eyes,

But a warm smile as well.

She was the wisest,

When all of them fell.

On to the eighth,

A joy just to be around.

And when she was sleeping,

She was happy not to make a sound.

Baby nine now,

And oh how she struggled!

She flipped and she turned,

But she loved to be cuddled.

The tenth had her curls,

Matted locks of black.

The doctors were persistent,

They knew she’d be back.

Baby eleven saw people,

Saw them for what they were.

She knew the right people,

Observant, that was her.

Baby twelve was light and careful,

She hated loud noises and such.

Her parents did shout again and again,

She’s always hated them just as much.

Now baby thirteen,

An odd little lark.

Eyes black as coal,

Haunting and dark.

Hair there to match,

A lethal smile to kill.

Eyebrows raised poised,

Yes. He knew the drill.

Now thirteen years on,

And one every year.

Twelve babies have died,

Or just disappeared.

The thirteenth a teen,

Knew what was coming.

But he had a plan,

A plan that was cunning.

He knew since his birth,

What the curse did entail.

That’s why he now hangs,

From the curtain rail.

He knew he was lucky,

Yet his time had ran out.

Twelve had gone,

When death came back out.

Baby thirteen,

Now thirteen forever.

Took his own life,

Not in place of another.

Baby thirteen,

And twelve other youths.

Are up there together,

For they knew the truth.