Constance Wynn Poem by Phil Soar

Constance Wynn



Constance Wynn could not get in
She'd left her keys inside
And so she slept in a garden shed
With a shovel by her side
And when she woke she couldn't cope
Her anxiousness was rife
She'd never been so pitiful
In all her blooming life

Wednesday, September 28, 2016
Topic(s) of this poem: nonsense
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