They were a pair of slaves to him
two hands, two feet, two eyes
from dawn until twilight too dim
for routine's compromise.
The mules with which he plowed the corn
derived much more respect,
harness tassels did adorn
his livestock, circumspect.
Nothing was too good for them
each like a pampered boy,
profusely did his praises stem
they were his pride and joy.
But daughters were another thing,
old maids he kept the pair,
never enough, kind words to sing
somehow forgot to care.
When they were younger straight and tall
their beaus would visit late,
until he drove them one and all
like fog to dissipate.
Time sped by, and swains forgot
as often to stop by,
spinster maids became their lot,
rejection's shy reply.
Long years later when his time came
two sisters faced his grave
brimful of thoughts sure to defame
that one, in death, the slave.
copyright 1999, The Goober Tree Press, all rights reserved