by Nick Gisburne
The perfect baby boy, the perfect child
Is offered to an expert by the nurse
To speculate its mother ever smiled
Ignores the daily damage of the Curse
Identical in each and every way
To all the other babies born of late
What else, what pained reaction but dismay?
Another, with an equal, awful fate
Contaminated rivers, lakes, and seas
Select and switch the reproductive genes
And by a shift of gradual degrees
The human race discovers what it means
A world of indistinguishable men
And when there are no women? Well, what then?
