She was the one I looked up to,
Except when she had the boy-cut hairdo.
She taught me what not to wear,
Like her Starter jacket of the Chicago Bears.
Her plaid shirts and paisley shorts,
Looked better than those she wore for sports.
She would always leave some room in her bed,
For me come to sleep in when I couldn't rest my head.
Less concerned about boys and more track,
She found a real catch, a real Daddy mack!
My biggest sister is like a Monica wanna-be,
With her house spick-and-span and no crumbs to see.
I'll never be able to thank her for the few mistakes she made,
Because to my parents I'm the angel and that name will never fade.
She hates that I wrote poems so eloquently,
And wishes that she could rhyme just like me.
So what will she do with story I've told?
Will she realize her little sister thinks she's precious as gold?