Will you be an incubator for my DNA?
Because if you’ll be my wine glass, I’ll be your cabernet.
The fruit’s fermenting, it needs bottling,
it needs a clean environment… for it to blossom in.
Will you be the vessel of reproduction for my encoded molecule of genetic instruction, baby?
There’s merely a smattering of insanity in the history of my family,
so be the conduit for my genetic code?
Be the fertile ground
where my seed can grow?
Will you be my baby momma?
Come on, baby, say you’re gonna offer your fallopians, so a new custodian
can move into your womb.
Will you be the incubator for my DNA?
Darling! Store my nucleic acid,
be its breeding place.
I can’t promise much:
a sensitive touch
(when it comes to the fun conceiving stuff),
a nurturing instinct, a big safe pair of hands
(that are mostly in proportion with all the other organs and glands),
a life expectancy of at least nine months
and eighteen years,
and a scream-detecting pair of grabbable ears.
Will you be the incubator for my DNA?
Give it warmth and nutrients and help it on its way?
I’ve been through childhood, puberty, adolescence,
and adulthood for so long now that I’m bored of life’s repeating lessons.
So be the paper for the blueprint of our self-replicating patterns –
make me a new human being, my love, by making me a new human being, my love.
If you do, I promise to keep its orifices clean, my love,
warm up the nipples
whenever it needs a feed, my love,
take it for walks and teach it to read, my love,
pass on my wisdom and give it all my love, my love.
Will you be the incubator for my DNA?
Extend your pretty labia for the new head of our family, bear the childbirth pain?
Allow me to offer stimulation
that will open your cervix for my ejaculation
because I’m getting good at copulation.
Come, consent to be my gestation station,
take a break from menstruation.
Let’s get to work on impregnation.
Take a slide down my double helix.
Take a chance on my unique sequence.
Write the text of you-and-me sequel.
See what you plus me will really equal.
If you endure the morning sickness, the heavy weight, the bulbous shape,
the screaming pain, and the excruciating splitliness,
I promise to fill our family’s days with security and happiness.
If you’ll be the grow bag for my DNA strand,
and squeeze a human through your foof,
then I promise I’ll hold your hand.