Excerpt
It was quarter past six when the babies set out, dragging banners and posters and signs that they’d made.
They flung off their booties and took to the sidewalks, A barefooted, bad-tempered baby brigade.
“We can’t all walk yet, but we’re marching in protest,” they called to their parents who brought up the rear.
“We’ve plenty to say, and it’s time that you heard it.
Take notes. You will need them. We’ll try to be clear.
“We won’t wash our faces.
We won’t eat our mashed peas.
We won’t wear the frilly clothes great-grandma made.
We won’t use a tissue.
We won’t smile on cue.
We’re a Barefooted, bad-tempered baby brigade!”