When Dovina was a little baby, she wasn’t very meek or very mild. She picked up a pencil and her Mama’s writin’ pad. “There lies a problematic child,” Mama said, “There lies a problematic child.” Mama took a trip down to the courthouse, the little baby sittin’ on a stool. She found what she was lookin’ for; accountants always do. Said, “This baby’s gonna be an April fool, Lord, Lord, This baby’s gonna be an April fool.” She nudged a number here and a filing date there. “Let my little wordsmith find a cure.” But she woke up in the night with horrifying fright. “My baby’s gonna write about me sure. Lord, Lord, “My baby’s gonna write about me sure.”