The Baby Burglar

There's a little tiny burglar
who is living in our place.
He has itty-bitty fingers
and a charming baby face.

Though he hasn't touched my jewelry
or removed a single dime,
it seems this baby burglar has
absconded with my time.

I used to spend my extra hours
occupied with knitting,
but all of that's behind me now;
there's no more time for sitting.

I have no time to wash a dish
or sweep the floor or bake.
No time to spin a single ply;
my crafts I must forsake.

The baby burglar stole my time,
of this I am convinced.
T'was here before he came around;
I haven't seen it since.

So how'd the burglar do it?
Just where have the moments flown?
I've spent them staring into eyes
that look just like my own.

I don't mind in the slightest,
there's no anger on my part.
For when the burglar stole my time,
he also stole my heart.