|The Genetic Joke|
Flat black eyes, that’s a must,
a similar flatness in the bust.
In the cauldron to gently simmer
goes a chronic sweaty shimmer.
Then small lips, and childish ears
while a mole on the chin appears.
Spidery fingers, spindly toes
and a ski-slope upturned nose.
Narrow hips and a wire-like smile
float past me as I stir the bile.
A skeleton too tall, and feet too big
with skin as thick as a pot-bellied pig.
Freckles too, just for luck,
and eyebrows you can never pluck.
I added these things to the mix,
yet I was shocked by my own tricks.
The potion, the product, was a beautiful girl
with dark deep eyes that framed the world.
With glowing skin and a delicate face,
she seemed more elf-like than the human race.
With a beauty spot and piano hands,
she seemed like Cleopatra untanned.
The nose was a button, the hips were a vase,
the smile put boys into a daze.
The elegant frame and sure-footed walk
made jealous girls stop to gawk.
Offset by freckles, her fire-like hair
made her brow seem barely there.
When I conceived, I felt like a witch
to sentence my child to live in this ditch,
passing features to the unwilling,
such was the ugliness I was instilling.
Yet my double, my clone, looks so very bright
with features that on me don’t look quite right.
Though glad for my daughter, I have the right to mope,
as the elder of the pair, and a genetic joke.
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