I had a dream that I fathered a bizarro genius baby.

She's out the womb like, “Dood, why'd I get expatriated?”

Debated at one month the finer points of a diaper,

devised a device composed of a hose and a windshield wiper.

Grew riper in intellect as the months passed, wore a dunce cap ironically,

got fussy once and she summoned me not sonically

but through a series of editorials that she authored,

entitled: “Is MC Frontalot One Of The Worst Fathers?”

Oxford, Stanford, Harvard called, she didn't call them back.

“Tuition & Housing? I'm holding out for a tenure track.”

Distracted by her first birthday party, I hardly noticed

she'd brought peace to the middle east or at least a cease-fire with the POTUS.

And no dust had settled when she'd disproved Fermat

by finding A^3 + B^3 that = C^3 and her sadness

at throwing the field into disarray got assuaged

by a brand new rattle and a mint parfait.


Bizarro genius baby: at first I was elated, but eventually I grew concerned.

Bizarro genius baby: you prove my genes are Grade A, but what of when tables turn?


She had to settle for the Fields Medal but didn't settle well,

all the while cursing the indiscretions of Madame Nobel,

and so well tuckered out was she at this point that she napped,

arose with a whole symphony composed in Bb.

“See dad?” Yes dear, it'll go with the other ones on the fridge,

in between the two Puccinis you translated & abridged,

just above ‘I love you dad' in macaroni/glitter

and the 37 villanelles to mom (but I ain't bitter).

And no quitter was she neither when the time it came to walk:

built an exoskeleton out of gelatin and chalk

which allowed her to run thirty miles an hour ‘round the yard.

You think that parenting your normal little children is hard?

I got scarred, scared, scampered at by holographic artifacts

that she projected on the scene with a machine that automatically

discerns your worst concerns & makes them visible.

She deemed it risible. Her glee was indivisible

from all emanations that the baby would make.

I had to become less hilarious for all of our sakes.

I made mistakes, I'll admit it. Dropped the kid on her head,

destroyed the part of her that thought of evil. Or so she said!

Now I bred this thing out myself in part —

she quoted “reap what you sow;” I had to take it to heart.

I sought to restart: I said, “Girl, you'll be a woman.

Can't be dabbling and dilettantin' all the time, I'm assuming.

Got to pick a theme and focus the beam of your brain power.”

Her face became overcome with an insane glower

and then it remained sour. She said, “Oh, I have.

Though the UI that you gave me was buggy I finally found me the nav.

And I'm dialing in a career path I think you'll like.

Began when I played with an 808 and it ends with a mic.”

I didn't need her to elaborate at all.

She was already wearing the glasses, mic in the palm.

She planned to become a nerdcore rapper just like me

so I shipped her to Singapore, sold her baby ass to Nike.