Wildwood # 1 Poem by James McLain

Is a secret dark place in southern Saint Petersburg.
In a dark cave weary and weak of life some are.
From the streets to here rabid like dog's the one's traumatized
Shake from the noise trapped in a dream most are.
Wildwood like an ant hill those at the top want out, we are sausage's
In the hands of a cook slaving day in and day out.
Some time's the noise comes, like a plane crash where like cord wood
The weak succumb to their weakness.
Drug's and alcohol from the mirror the seas are not close though
He whom can, will rise to the the crash of the wave's.
Yeah though we do we do not, verily one hears through the year's, the beat
Of each heart the hearts of the young and the old.
Thus few know and in knowing each story and verse to each line if it's just,
Like the tune to each winter's song.
But for now Summer's here and it's unbearably hot for me and the flies are
A blight to the flesh.
It is to soon much to soon to name the name of the show, relgion like men
Certanly woman are.
In the blink of an eye crossing an unbridged river he does the voice's say,
Long ago Deadwood was and wild but free just as Wildwood is.