This be the verse

Now that I am the terrible age of thirty ( I am not calling it terrible, the world does), everyone and their neighbours are curious about why I don't have kids. In the last couple of years I was warned by doctors and ordinary mortals alike that the clock is ticking and the eleventh hour hath arrriveth. I tried hard to feel scared, worried, at the least, uncomfortable. The thick skinned creature that I am, I just didnt feel convinced by the urgently toned warnings. I was even told it is a social responsibility- that's funny 'coz I thought society is already burdened with too many kids who had not chosen to come into this horrid world.
Anyway with a few people I tried to politely explain why (other than Hubby n me being quite happy by ourselves) I didnt find the idea of having kids very interesting. Then I remembered a Philip Larkins poem that had totally blown me away when I had first read it, back in college days in good old St. Joseph's. 

This be the verse
They fuck you up, your mum and dad.
They may not mean to, but they do.
They fill you with the faults they had
And add some extra, just for you.

But they were fucked up in their turn
By fools in old-style hats and coats,
Who half the time were soppy-stern
And half at one another's throats.

Man hands on misery to man.
It deepens like a coastal shelf.
Get out as early as you can,
And don't have any kids yourself.

Philip Larkin