Sister Josephine, our neighborhood nun.
No longer fit for ministry;
although she's quit the nunnery,
she sits at our day camp nursery.
Go Jo uses every amp of energy
so as to champion or otherwise dampen
the spirit of grit in our scamps.
Sister Josephine wins favors for good done.
Noise is born in my son
Enjoying his horn on the run.
From morn til night with the sun,
Boy Roy is fun, delightfully won.
Toys are Sprite cans, squiggly egg whites,
old cobs of corn and badly worn kites.
Sister Josephine, the savior you'd want.
Nursing their aches and their sprains,
reversing the stakes in their games,
she takes on blessing their brains.
Interspersed with pain, her tests will train,
coerce and arrest their notions with stress.
Her heart makes and breaks their quests.
Sister Josephine, our neighborhood nun.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem