(3/30) Year Two: TEETHING



I bit everything in sight,
my mom called me a baby beaver;
sneaking around the house at night,
using furniture as a teether.

My dad would put me in my crib,
like that was going to abate,
the craving to gnaw at a chair rib;
all I would do is escape.

Junior!!! he would scream and shout,
stop nibbling the table wood!
I'd make a sad face and pout,
but he knew I was up to no good.

To teach me a lesson about who was boss,
I chomped his finger; it was covered in hot sauce.




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