Bread And Butter To A Prisoner About To Die Poem by James McLain

Me myself the i, it dots as swell.
Wherefore then from whence,
this butter ran unto my loaf,
so thinly sliced,
of bread a single day it never knew it's own?
By it's self a single hand the bun it never held.
Butter on my chin is thick and sure,
it dears a naughty, buffed up smile, to cure
this your fib, of yellow tears is worn so chaste?
When it wakes a dairy tastes, is of one
silken tounge that all may lick,
around that trim, deep
wells to milk that most may drink till full.
Nurse, my flap is loose the wind blows through,
why then there for does broad beams, loosed around
your child,
and have me sin all by myself, it's I's it dotted well.
With winged two feet, one band is on the run.