This is a most intelligent

Infant and most elegant,

But who wants to be? Not me,

Nor Margaret. She's she,

Herself the only Margaret

In the world she knows yet.

She knows a thing or two

To do, or already three.

One is to smile up at me

As if she knows I'm who.

She has her mother's looks,

And my brains out of books,

Or, as some have found,

Both the other way round.

But the way the race is,

She will pass and surpass us.

Well, I'm not daunted.

Isn't that what we wanted?