Okay, I’m really not going to make fun of this one. Instead, I’ll share the whole poem here, for the entire Internet to enjoy (just as the author intended).
When I was young, so they say,
my sister used to watch me play,
she worried and wondered, so they said,
if I was OK, or maybe dead.
Reckless and careless, was my play
climbing trees and running away,
hiding and giggling while she looked,
keeping up with me, she could write a book.
We grew older, my sister and I,
she to the Navy, while I sat by,
wishing I hadn’t been so bad
missing her and being sad.
Our Mother sweet, loving and kind,
I nearly drove her out of her mind,
couldn’t seem to do anything right,
it seemed like one continuous fight.
I got married, much too soon,
producing children for the baby boom,
my sister, well, she also married,
I left home, not one to tary.
Separate lives, separate places,
once in a while, we touched bases,
I was still running, I was so young,
felt there were many songs to be sung.
Through it all, she remained my friend,
through some of the big times, but mostly thin,
took a long time to find my place,
to slow down from the mad rat race,
Now I feel old as can be,
but goodness gracious, she’s older than me,
wish she and I could be near,
to laugh and cry, evade my fear,
to talk of love, life and security,
some of the things that bother me.
One call to her will make my day,
wish they were free, didn’t have to pay,
but thanks to her, I’ve learned to pray,
for my dear sister on St. Patrick’s day.
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