You never hear of dull-winged butterflies,
of daisies that are snapped off at the stalk,
of blurry rainbows, or of brooding skies,
when lovers romp back home from some long walk.
And when they show you snapshots of some isle,
around whose sandy shores they slowly sailed
or croon about their cruise along the Nile,
they'll not complain of how the engine failed.
But give them just an extra year or two,
with nappies, mumps, and needing to invite
pediatricians, and a plumbing crew
-- they'll tell you when the baby cries all night.