The Deceiver

A Toy by a tousled head,
And breathing e’er so soft –
Could he be mine, the wild one,
With temper tantrums oft?

He looks so sweet, so innocent,
So like an angel here;
And smiles are playing on his lips;
He seems so limp and dear.

To tell the truth, he’s dreaming
some mischief to perform;
the “possum” will show signs of it
with coming of the morn.

So, easy then, and tip toe out,
or break the spell we’re in:
a mother must recuperate
to take the shocks again.

In honor of Sidney who was so quiet when asleep. His smiles were long and his tempers short.