Little mother, meek and mild,
I hear your precocious child
ticking out the alphabet
in a voice loud as it gets
so that one and all can hear
in this restaurant, far and near.
Guess you didn’t get the word–
children should be seen, not heard.
Your child is making a loathsome noise,
we hunger for her “inside voice”
instead of the barbaric yawp
more suited for to hail a cop.
What’s a timid guy to do
but write this heartfelt poem to you
and leave it–I know, I’m a lout–
for you to read as I run out.