With apologies to the Bard.

My children’s faces are nothing like the sun;

Crayons are far more red than their cheeks red;

They make the snow yellow; their noses run

Then stick the boogers in each other’s head.

I have seen the walls drawn on, red on white,

And toilet paper hanging from their cheeks;

And in scented lotion there is more delight

Than in the breath that from my children reeks.

I love to hear them speak, yet well I know

That music has a far more pleasing sound;

I grant I never saw some angels go;

My children, when they walk, tread on the ground.

   And yet, by heaven, I think my love as real

   As any from my heart they daily steal.