"What is this" says I to me,
"The girls are writing poetry?"
Have they nothing else to do,
but sit and write a rhyme or two?
You'd think with all their daily chores,
They'd not have time to do much more,
But, oh, no, not these siblings many,
They joke around like they're Jack Benny.
What the heck is going on,
Where's the time to put words to song,
I'd like to take part in this show,
But I've got weeds to pick and grass to mow.
But maybe just a word or two,
To show that I can rhyme with you,
A common subject that cannot miss,
A simple verse, that goes like this
"To think that I shall never see,
A poem as lovely as a tree",
Hold on a sec, I've got a hunch,
That someone beat me to the punch.
Just my luck to start so late
'Cause what I write won't be that great,
The great words have all been written
By my siblings, I've been smitten
Let's see, my brother is the artist; mom and sisters are poets,
They are all so artistic, just like Farley Mowat,
Brother paints his scenes, the girls sit and compose,
While all I can do, is spill soup on my clothes.
Oh, I can bang the drums till you're deaf in both ears,
Or put them away to a roomful of cheers,
I'm not complaining, this is no school of hard knocks,
But along with the soup, I've got holes in my socks.
