Baby.

From deep, slimy hole you came,

A crimson oil slick,

The tiny 'poles of life to blame,

For releasing from dipstick.

Fusing ovum, 'pole, and grain,

Will easy do the trick,

To labor mother toward the drain,

With metal, hook-like stick.

But you, my friend, are not to blame,

For simple arithmetic,

It's two plus two and sticky rain,

That made your mother sick.