Tiny tyke is teething
so she’s crying quite a bit.
She tries to stand up in her crib
but falls, so has to sit.
The toys she has to play with
are no longer any fun.
Now it’s time for baby’s bottle
so her momma’s on the run.
This goes on both day and night,
with changes all the while.
But all efforts are rewarded
at the sight of baby’s smile.
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Comments about this poem (Baby Teeth by Burt Poole )
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