Ode to the Unborn Child

What are you doing, little child?

Fighting and crying for the right to life?

So you think you want to be born?

Believe me, you’re better off unborn.

“Pro-choice or pro-life?”

If you knew what awaits you,

You wouldn’t be so sure.

You’re too small to make this choice.

The world will hit you at a tender age

Seven years old, total class outcast.

Everyone’s going to everyone’s parties

You sit alone wondering what you’re missing.

Twelve years old, going to big school.

Trapped in the wilderness of the yard.

People gather round, mocking you.

You’ll try to deny it, but deep down you know:

They’re right. You’re unlovable.

You’re a waste of air and space.

You should never have been given the right to life.

If you had any decency, you’d end it all now.

But that’s nothing really.

You’ll get through it okay, I promise.

Everyone tells you it gets better as you grow.

Hate to break it to you… it gets worse.

Life is hell once you’re seventeen.

You’re single, your pals aren’t.

They try not to rub it in, but you can see

Pitying sympathy in their eyes.

You don’t want to give up, don’t want to give in.

Still hoping someday he’ll notice you, but he won’t.

He’s happy being alone, he’d rather be alone than with you.

Don’t show them you’re hurt, just smile and laugh.

But trust me, my child.

You can’t get over it.

And if someday you’re living proof of this

Don’t blame me.

You’re better off unborn.

Better off not even tasting life.

Pro-choice is for you

You’re better off not knowing.