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Poem
Larry was the oldest,  seemed every day he grew 
Bubbling with mischief,   like a cackling witches brew 
At the time just  10  or so,  but that’s a long way back 
Humorously independent,    the joker of his pack. 
And then came Jan,   smiling face of missing teeth
Radiating   freckles,  a  tomboy underneath  
Followed by little Davey,  and his demon  dog named  Stiff
Really good at misbehaving,  or some real mischief. 

There are potent spells a witch can cast, riding on her broom
Sorcerers tricks from ages past, weaving trickery  on her loom 
To ferment a brew with some illusion, and  a spell or two
With spirit salts and then confusion,  to make her schemes come true 

Johnny was the toddler,  did pretty much as told
Shook his rattle,  sucked his thumb, let his world unfold 
So that’s team, the whole groundcrew,  dynamic  young and bold   
With dreams and schemes of their machines, something to behold
 With sticks and gum  and elastic bands,  a runway made of tiles, 
Perched upon the old shed roof,  it could be seen for miles 
Gleaming in the evening sun ,  the plane was quite a feat
A firecracker in an  upturned pail, as an ejector seat
 
A barnyard roof may not seem high,  20 feet I’d guess, 
The main thing was to make dad proud, something to impress
But to the boys quite high enough,  for their first flight test
To  act like men by doing good,  and sticking to their quest.
The plane was much too hard to move, even with all  three trying  
They ignored the pilots grumblings,  leaving Johnny close to crying  
What it really needed was a magic wand, the ones that sorcerers use,
One with proper magic powers,    that could also light the fuse. 

One more shove is all we’ll need,  lets give it one more try 
I’m guessing theres  trick to  this,  to making this  thingfly.
Then Abracadabra  he had the thought,    that used a pole and levers.
Come on now,  You’ll all be proud, we’ll show them non-believers
See it’s already at the edge,  nothing can stop us now.
But as the plane started to tilt, sweat  on the pilot’s brow
Litltle Johnny  started to sob, and could not hold back his tears,
And within the nearby kitchen, the cry fell on someone’s ears, 

What wicked spells a witch can cast, as she rides apon her broom
Using evil tricks from ages past, and illusions weaved by loom 
But that’s no match for a prairie  mother, running with a scream 
With terror in her eyes,  to end an evil scheme.
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