 |
| My Sister. She only looks tough. |
In youth, I was a daring sort,
A heedless, reckless charge-right-in.
In games, activities and sports,
In all events. And lose or win.
My sister, she of softer mien,
Would often follow where I led.
On dusty trails or tracks unseen,
The paths where ‘Angels fear to tread’ . . .
Upon Montana’s ski slopes there,
A smooth trail beckoned through the woods.
A path, the incandescent air,
Promised everything that’s good.
But I’m a cowgirl to my toes,
E’en upon the mountain side,
I had one speed and t’wasn’t slow.
My sister’s caution, I’d deride.
Spectacular and fast, my run,
I made a final, breathless stop.
Then waited for my Chris to come,
And happily scanned the mountain top.
She didn’t show, I’m sure you’ve guessed.
She’d fallen, twisted up her knee.
And now her holiday was messed
Cause she’d been trying to catch me.
One summer, as we headed home,
Bedecked in prairie dust and grime,
From checking through the herds that roam,
(And it was nearing supper time).
The lot fell to my sister there,
To man the gate so we’d get through.
She finished the small task with flair,
Re-mount was all she had to do.
But as she slipped her foot into
The stirrup, something went awry,
Impatient me had spurred my horse
And off t’ward home this goose did fly.
My sister’s horse did join the run
And spilled her owner in the dirt
A badly injured knee (not fun),
And for my Sis, a world of hurt.
The message that I’ve tried to tell,
In my picturesque and silly way,
Is: We all know the one to blame
And who should really have to pay.
So if adventure’s what you crave,
If, into sports, you plow headfirst,
Remember: Though they may seem fun,
Avoid the cowgirls. They’re the worst!
