From birth to death some others must be there:
You see, as infant, round-faced, grinning blobs
Above the crib, to serve you, need of prayer
Precluded by efficacy of sobs.
But as you grow the blobs become vexations,
Reproving parents claiming you have made
A god to vindicate your aspirations,
Unlike the sterner god whom they obeyed.
But years cast doubts on what was sure before,
And now you cling to heaven out of fear,
As at the end you’ve round-faced blobs once more,
But stethoscoped, unsmiling, most severe.