Good Morning It Is, Actually Poem by James McLain

There are
to many times.
The way
day rhymes with night.

Looking,
I am who can sit.
You look at
from the mountain
tall and high?

It seems that
I like lily.
By the pond.

Without thorns
I see one rose
but
it looks odd.

Out of place
it has
the feel off that?

Like the bird
that sees a worm.
In mid flight
but has a fever.

Without feathers.
And on hearing
that two without
one ever being
had before.
Both never had.

When it called,
good morning
and the
morning, Lied!