Apron

Says the mother are there
things I should know
of my adapted children.

Says will you be mine
unhappy scruff.

What a frightful bunch,
skip-small and paisley.

Says, like a limb
you take as your own
I'll wing this little bunch

of half-mulched grass.
Says, I'll make my wine
of them, mine, I'll make

my dreaded brood.