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.