Avuncular Play Poem by Ross Clark

My four uncles took their turns
in the harbouring of me;
they stepped up to my boyish needs,
whatever they might be.

Uncle Four was quick and rude,
full of laughter and of schemes;
he did not stoop his heart too far
to join me in my dreams.

Uncle One was big and loud,
a man of doing and of jokes;
I was the young off-sider
in a pair of raucous blokes.

Uncle Two was kindly rough,
pursuit of women on his mind,
and I was at the age right then
to discover all their kind.

Uncle Three showed quiet resolve
and cared not to compete,
but chuckled low when random life
threw puzzles at his feet.

Your four uncles took their turns
in the growing up of you;
they protected all your boyish deeds,
whatever you might do.