I’m also sometimes Confused and always of Calcutta, but my blog even owes its origin to Ogden Nash (and Tom Paine):

“Why did the Lord give us this agility
If not to evade responsibility?”

You touched my funny bone! In my mind, Ogden Nash sits alone in his throne somewhere up there, watching, observing curiously at his fellow people and writing incisive, cutting lines only he can dream up.

I can’t remember how I first read Ogden Nash, but it wasn’t something very different from your story. While browsing at my Uncle’s collection in Pune in my early teens, I stumbled across this oddly titled book (can’t recall!) which was just riveting. Since then, I sought for, and bought, Nash’s collections, especially older ones.

One of my favorite poems is “Song To Be Sung By The Father of Infant Female Children”.
(Wordsworth fans will be delighted/amused at how it starts.)

My heart leaps up when I behold
A rainbow in the sky;
Contrariwise, my blood runs cold
When little boys go by.
For little boys as little boys,
No special hate I carry,
But now and then they grow to men,
And when they do, they marry.
No matter how they tarry,
Eventually they marry.
And, swine among the pearls,
They marry little girls.

Oh, somewhere, somewhere, an infant plays,
With parents who feed and clothe him.
Their lips are sticky with pride and praise,
But I have begun to loathe him.
Yes, I loathe with loathing shameless
This child who to me is nameless.
This bachelor child in his carriage
Gives never a thought to marriage,
But a person can hardly say knife
Before he will hunt him a wife.

I never see an infant (male),
A-sleeping in the sun,
Without I turn a trifle pale
And think is he the one?
Oh, first he’ll want to crop his curls,
And then he’ll want a pony,
And then he’ll think of pretty girls,
And holy matrimony.
A cat without a mouse
Is he without a spouse.

Oh, somewhere he bubbles bubbles of milk,
And quietly sucks his thumbs.
His cheeks are roses painted on silk,
And his teeth are tucked in his gums.
But alas the teeth will begin to grow,
And the bubbles will cease to bubble;
Given a score of years or so,
The roses will turn to stubble.
He’ll sell a bond, or he’ll write a book,
And his eyes will get that acquisitive look,
And raging and ravenous for the kill,
He’ll boldly ask for the hand of Jill.
This infant whose middle
Is diapered still
Will want to marry My daughter Jill.

Oh sweet be his slumber and moist his middle!
My dreams, I fear, are infanticiddle.
A fig for embryo Lohengrins!
I’ll open all his safety pins,
I’ll pepper his powder, and salt his bottle,
And give him readings from Aristotle.
Sand for his spinach I’ll gladly bring,
And Tabasco sauce for his teething ring.
Then perhaps he’ll struggle through fire and water
To marry somebody else’s daughter.

(C) Ogden Nash’s estate

Your words survive the grave.
They grow better as they age.
You made the immortal chortle.

Source: http://www.isen.com/archives/020805.html