Talk 'To' The Pillows Poem by James McLain

I have all ways done
so, even as a child
did I know gallons of tears
mostly from fear

As nuerotic people
whom claimed they
did care

Sendings uncles to bring
you back from places
only Crawford would dare

Fearless of death you knew
it true

Crawford she was not
but so many think
they are

Does the child in this thing
called the show must go on

The show always goes on
at pace with grace

No decent
director could
say but of else
colors magnificent
managerie to bring
back

Memories red white and blue
with such grace
and a level head
every single
mountain top
would be so
happily tred

For the purity
of simple
snow taste
not of tears

So the Pillow
tells me so