Mischief Maker
You are our parents' only son,
three sisters grew
and gave you guff;
you stood alone on constant guard,
in teasing vein and comic mien.
I am the sibling next in line—
the cagey one—
a boomerang who fed it back,
if you began to clown around
and play the fool.
We are astute and wiser still
than number three;
her stiff chagrin,
her will to win,
enhanced your fun.
But sometimes love allays the fume,
as baby four
supplied the balm,
restored accord,
inside our home.
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