Pretty Clouds Of Poetry Poem by James McLain

Standing up to her summer in Miami.
Back and forth in the hot white sand.
I overheard her mother tell her only that.
Your panties are to be worn.
Not seen or smelled and certainly not.
Listen to me, because often by him they were.
They often after you pee catch your dripps.
No one leaks and no one pees.
Except Martha Stewart.
You will wear the panties that I give you.
Because no one wants to see drops of pee.
Back on the front of your shorts.