The Phantom Sister

David—he is my youngest son; There are, you know, three others— Appears to think it’s not much fun To only just have brothers.

He likes them all, you understand, But there is this objection: They don’t wear pretty dresses and They don’t crave his affection.

So he has added to the fold A little sister, “Bessie.” She’s just his age—that’s three years old— And very awful dressy.

Yet she’s not vain, but seems to be Of rather shy demeanor; Outside of Dave, her family Have not so much as seen her.

Which we regret, for as I say Her clothes are awful pretty. They come in truckloads every day From stores in New York City.

But all the clothes and all the toys Which David says he’s bought her Are held as the exclusive joys Of him and my new daughter.

For them and her, we take his word; ’Twere imbecile to flout him. Hell has no fury like this bird When you presume to doubt him!