Smiles, Is A Living Picture Show Poem by James McLain

You are bad, dab wicked of course, yes
you are, David's copper, your field lost in to
wisdom of hands he just, cannot follow, while
watching your eyes, that wont tell.

Yes, I know that it is, confusing, but you do drip to
the music, you find in your mind, watching her sway
all the time, trapped inside of a box, that is I, sawed in half.

Wicked is your thought, yet you lie to the field, on your
back to the sky and it is bad, this dab, you......
wipe on me, with smiles.