My mother was the middle childOf seven very different girls.
I’ve seen her photos, running wild,
Her face a mass of golden curls.
Her sisters are like chalk and cheese,
Three are noisy, three are quiet.
The older three say thanks and please,
The younger set of three runs riot.
On New Year’s Eve, the six aunts come
To see the New Year in chez nous.
Alas, it’s too genteel for some,
And far too loud for one or two.
Last year we made a big mistake,
Did not invite the older three.
The younger three conspired to make
A bonfire of our Christmas tree.
This year, poor mother has been put
With this dilemma on the spot –
The younger aunts are coming but
Should older, quaint aunts be forgot?
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