The Grandest Job: The Poetic Pleasures of Grandparenting

My grandson thinks I hung the moon;
My granddaughter agrees.
I feed them with a silver spoon,
With pleasure and with ease.

It's all the joy without the job;
Grandparenting's the bomb,
For if they start to scream and sob,
We send them back to Mom.

I coddle and I spoil them
With treasures and with toys,
This is my right; you can't condemn,
For they're my pride and joys.

It's all the joy without the job;
Grandparenting's the bomb,
For if they start to scream and sob,
We send them back to Mom.

It's not my job to call the shots
When they step out of line.
Their parents have to train these tots,
But I can call them mine!

It's all the joy without the job;
Grandparenting's the bomb,
For if they start to scream and sob,
We send them back to Mom.

The mounds of laundry, messy rooms,
Don't bother me a bit,
For my own home, it fairly blooms,
'Cause they don't live at it!