FAMILY PLANNING
Twelve months before a birth the baby waits,
choosing its parents (putative) with care.
It fancies Simon's nose and Sarah's hair
but they're not even flirting.  It would hate
Robert's slipped chin and mottled ears or Kate's
sour tendency to acne.  Unaware,
two party-goers magnetise and pair.
There is a future world to populate.
As Joe and Stephanie meet, chat and kiss
our insubstantial Cupid shoots his darts,
the little laughing boy hits home.  He means
to tranquillise them long enough for this:
their perfect wedding of true minds and hearts;
his pick-and-mix selection of sweet genes.

THE MOLECULAR BIOLOGIST TO HIS LOVE
Come, live with me and be my love,
my valentine, my turtle dove,
in passion's bower we'll spend our day,
democratising DNA.

I long to clasp you in my arms
and celebrate your many charms;
while I adore your radiant beauty,
I can fulfil genetic duty.

Your loveliness requires no proof,
you should not hold yourself aloof:
refusal, sweetheart, is defeatist,
and biologically elitist.

Your curves and my first class degree
could mix and start a pedigree,
with pulchritude and brains combined -
but, dear, you've something on your mind!

You're wondering how such a plan
could be egalitarian;
do not perplex your pretty head -
there is a chance, it must be said,

of error, in exchange meiotic,
(a side-line of the life erotic):
while we are locked in love's embrace,
our chromosomes might build a race

with all my flaws plus your defects ...
but that is why the act of sex
beats Death as leveller supreme.
Come, love, I'll show you what I mean.


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