my cousin, Ura May
The girls had been discipled
Ura May let them know clearly,
There was to be no fighting
Not scratching or biting.
They rode in the car’s backseat,
Quiet as mice on silent feet.
“Look back and check on them,”
Ura May must have suspected mayhem.
I was at a loss to describe,
What was going on with that little tribe.
They tumbled about on the car’s floor,
Pounding, kicking, biting and more,
But all the while as quiet as could be,
Not one outcry to give away their spree,
Overloaded on a need to win,
They had developed their own discipline.