In the grey of the dawn
you drink intently,
your eyes gaze ahead,
their brownness tells me nothing;
there is authority in the hold
of your two hands on the breast;
your toes knead my belly
to a rhythm of their own.

In the evenings you grow fond:
you press in the nipple
and laugh as it rises,
peeping round it at Dad
with a biscuit in your fist...

But at night
na tamed pup you -
no kiss on the lips can soothe you
or ditty whispered in your ear -
your fingers tear at my gown
as, roaring at the darkness,
you claim your hereditary right.