"C'est la vie," Say the old folks,

                 Aren't  they lovely "the Babbies,"  In their elegant clothes, as they sit
                 on a velvet banquette in their nonchalant pose.
                 Once the little angels  did  drawings, and painting of the moon and the stars.
                 But now it's fine wines and cigarettes, and whiling  away time in posh bars.
                 But why do I call them "the Babbies," young ladies they must surely be?
                 In my minds eye with delight they would cry when babies they bounced
                 on my knee.