Poem

The moon is up

The baby grows

It kicks inside me

so I know

That in December

when we sleep

A wee, wee cry

will make a peep

And keep me from

the precious doze

That makes me sane

and on my toes

So when the world

lay mostly snoring

I'll find midnight is

far from boring

But for now

she softly kicks

And I am up

And boy this stinks

But Dan's up, too

and this is good

He will help me

with her food

When she awakes

both day and night

And we can't sleep

Try as we might

*A poem. 

Written poorly. 

In the wee hours of the morning.

 Because I can't sleep. 

Even though I'm t-i-r-e-d.