A satirical poem
by Mary McWilliams Johnson

Oh, if only it were the men who had the babies!
  There'd be no more abortions,
    'cause of course they'd always 
      do the right thing.

Picture Jim Cromwell, rising young executive -- 
  dashing young man-about-town.
    Wakes up one morning sick as a dog.
"Dammit, why didn't I remember to take my pill!"

Calls the boss, 
  "Look, Arnold, got a touch of the morning sickness.
    Can't make the 9:00 staff meeting; 
      gotta check in with my OB."

Picture Jim three months later,
  browsing at Brooks Brothers 
    for those cute paternity suits.
You know, stretch vests and expanding-front pants.
  He should have that glow only a pregnant man can have, 
    but he's depressed.
The gal that got him pregnant isn't speaking to him.
  And he's been turned down by every name 
    in his Little Black Book.

But Jim's the right sort; he'll carry the babe to term, 
  then give it up.
So what if the secretaries titter, 
  "He waddles like a duck."
So what if he must excuse himself three times 
  from the executive power lunch
    to visit the Little Boys' Room.
So what if he gets passed over for promotion. 
  ("Jim's likely to get pregnant every year.")

Jim just mutters, 
  "I'll file a sexual discrimination suit!"