Abigail by Kaye Starbird

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Abigail knew when she was born

Among the roses, she was a thorn.

Her quiet mother had lovely looks.

Her quiet father wrote quiet books.

Her quiet brothers, correct though pale,

Weren’t really prepared for Abigail

Who entered the house with howls and tears

While both of her brothers blocked their ears

And both of her parents, talking low,

Said, “Why is Abigail screaming so?”

Abigail kept on getting worse.

AS soon as she teethed she bit her nurse,

AT three, she acted distinctly cool

Toward people and things at nursery school.

“I’m sick of cutting out dolls,” she said,

And cut a hole in her dress, instead.

Her mother murmured, “She’s bold for three.”

Her father answered, “I quite agree.”

Her brothers mumbled, “We hate to fuss,

But when will Abigail be like us?”

Abigail, going through her teens,

Liked overalls and pets and machines.

In college, hating most of its features,

She told off all of her friends and teachers.

Her brothers, graduating from Yale,

Said: “Really, you’re hopeless, Abigail.”

And while her mother said, “Fix your looks,”

Her father added, “Or else write books.”

And Abigail asked, “Is  that a dare?”

And wrote a book that would curl your hair…