She's late, she' late Hurrah she's late
Finally I might have a son from my mate
I buy him some clothes, for this time its fate
Even though I buy it eight months before the date

There is a problem six months later
He came out early and placed in an incubator
why did you do this to him god, you traitor
For now on I will not fuck, I'll become a masterbater

A week later I get a call, he's dead
He died in his incubator bed
There is not much else to be said
I was going to name him Ted

My wife killed herself the next day
I didnt get a chance to say
It wasnt her fault in any way
I lie here in my bed, my mood is so grey

Why did this have to happen to me
I've should've been so happy
Looking at a picture of my wife I had to see
For now... to me.... it's just a faded memory

Want to comment on this Poetry? Sign up to Edit Red and you will be able to comment on Poetry and get access to: Upload your own stories and poems, get readers and their feedback, promote your work...