I found this scathing verse by Jean Richepin, and did my best to translate it.  I intended to set it to music, but discovered that Georges Brassens had already done that.  So, I illustrated it instead; and have projected and recited it in various theaters.

Philistine, you copulate
With your lawful wedded mate,
Dreaming,
Dreaming,

Of the children you will breed
From the spreading of your seed,
Hoping,
Hoping,

They will be upstanding ones:
Tidy, sturdy, barbered sons,
Bankers,
Bankers.

Nature, though, to punish you,
Will provide you quite a few,
Many,
Many,

Children that you will not want:
Wild, impractical, and gaunt,
Poets,
Poets.

Nature has the final word,
Growing from the ripest turd
Roses,
Roses.

And here are the titles, and the roses.