Entering through the passageway to life,
ab ovo without impure baggage.
A wizened sponge ready to absorb,
a trencherman for knowledge.
How is it that in a short time,
this miracle creation of reason.
Pliable as clay in a hand,
a creation of principles and freedom.
Commissioned elders are we,
to feed this sponge of comprehension.
Sole provider of hope, faith and love,
leaving us with feelings of apprehension.
For if this seedling mind should falter,
left unattended to die on the vine.
We will forever be called to the altar,
as the destroyer of a Perfect Mind.