Thankless; born through the winds of council estate,
The contribution of he who has run plagues your flesh,
And when 3 quarters are up the clock rings less loud them your scream,
Push,
The beating of hearts,
Push,
The beeping of screens,
Push
The beginning of the end to lead into a new opening
Mother hold me as I readjust to a cold, clinical world,
Wipe my blood and tears away and let me suckle on your breast,
And I will apologise 15 and a bit years in from the act,
For you have carried a weight 9 months and let them desecrate your cervix,
Just for them to come out wrong.
