For every little babe that looks at a babe of its own,

A footnote is attached to both of their minds.

Whether or not the younger babe is wanted by the older will forever imprint a little phrase on that footnote;

My momma and poppa did or did not want me.

As the grievences go higher, the more notes are added to that little babe's footnote;

My poppa yells at me.

My momma cries with me.

My poppa hits me.

My momma leaves me alone when poppa hits me.

As that little babe grows older, it will start to realise how it has been raised,

From the ground up like a seedling into a tree.

Whether they are able to sprout branches and grow bountiful fruit is all up to the environment,

The soil put beneath them must be strong and the hands tending it must be willing,

Or that little tree will find itself withered in on itself with weak twigs for limbs and a damaged sense of being.

So what is the point of giving a seedling to a babe who is not ready,

How can we in good conscious allow a life to be raised by one that has not had the chance to live yet,

And if the tree of liberty must be watered with the blood of tyrants,

Then the tree of babes must be watered with the blood of loving mothers and fathers.

It's no easy thing to raise a babe, much less be a babe.

Why plant a seedling in fallow ground when it could be planted in fertile and gentle soil?

Have we not the compassion to raise our babes as we raise our orchards?

For every little babe that has a babe of their own,

So often both babes are battered.

Why can we not prevent those problems,

With simple freedom and choice?