Mary Jo Bang overhears a baby-monitor conversation and cooks up soothing non-nursery rhymes:

The baby grew up. Became an almost three-five.
She denunciated the keepers
Of the albums where her brother was pointing
To some flippant toy, and a copy
Of Henry James pointing to little Edith Wharton.
His face as smug as a rug.
Both of them clueless.