Spit-Up

My shirt is splotched with spit-up,
Though my shoulder sports a burper.
My clothes are like a kingdom
And my grandson's the usurper.

He drinks his bottle, gives a burp
And then, without a doubt,
A quarter of what just went in
Comes, like a fountain, out.

I really do not mind, but learned
My lesson, truth be told - 
When I'm with Henry, what I wear
Is faded, frayed or old!