Whoever would crave
to have a babe
that’s exactly the same
as yours truly?
Why have a clone
whose every old bone
will ache like my bones,
whose flesh is my flesh,
and all full of wrinkles?
Better to scramble
the pool of our genes
out in the dark
behind all the bramble.
It’s also more fun,
and in the long run
a roll of the dice
is the joy of the gamble.
And even the rice
that’s thrown at a wedding
has more flair and flamboyance
than that in-vitro performance
they do at a cloning.
So I’d rather a babe
whose genes are a mix
like those dinners we rustle
when there’s just nothing to fix..
Then when he’s a bother,
and unduly unruly,
when I’m ready to strangle,
I won’t feel too squeamish.
If he isn’t a clone,
then he’s only a brat,
and I can put all the blame
on my Significant Other.