In plain words
Kaṇṇaṉ, says Yaśōdā, you who come along on tottering steps with a thousand boys your own match; matchless trickster, who ate ghee golden as gold with milk sweet as nectar and then crawled about as if you could not walk; Lord, who set your mouth to the breast of the deceitful woman [Pūtanā] with a waist slender as lightning, so that she died: ah me, I know you now for what you are [the Lord, not my child]. I am afraid to give you my milk.