Roses Grow And Mary Gold Poem by James McLain

The pin and thread remains the bottom button is.
Between your finger and my thumb.
Looking up at me she states, Securely, as a gun.
When her window under mine, the clicking sound.
My father whom from you is why I'm here.
Running off like you, your garden I have fairly dug.
As for treats the peat between the flowers go to bed.
Where Roses grow and Mary gold,
look where it is you see and where it goes.
Rough boots I toe the ground and draw it closer still.
The wagon wheel has hit a rock come grease the shaft.
In addition to his being high because of this new low.
Bright red the edge look deeply we are buried near the edge.
Free to choose is best if made to eliminate,
love is hardness when hot our hands are never cool.