We file around rhinoceros,
and tiptoe past the sleeping bear,
the lion and the antelope,
and glad giraffes, without a care;
then finally, your little face
beholds a creature known to you;
you point your finger t'wards the horse,
and gravely utter, "moo!"
Your four-wheeled chair is empty now,
and many years have passed us by.
You've just begun your thrilling teens,
and yet, you still must wonder why
a parent looks with happy smiles
on memories of infant bliss,
and loves far more than words can tell
to think of such as this.