The Woman, Inside Out...
She knows, She says a door, a button now
by James McLain
pushed, past a bent line, that wiggles her.
When she grippes it, magical mirror breaths
smoke, she grabs, like jars, inside labels with.
He is just to simple, enjoys wiggle different, to
birds taste the same, would she turn the knob
of door..and cross the wiggled line..ask more?
He beggars to the mask, unhinged hanging on her
back, golfballs full of bags, to stare, I do so love.
His genius frightens her, the ego cries all others
filled is he in with, jealousy was the last egg, left
unfrocked, yet she loves to scramble his eggs.
Then if you are what is found, do not hide me..