For The Bashful So It Is Shy Poem by James McLain

With three men to pick from
you would decide your self,
and never love a choice it, once cut?
Mother in grace it rests with thee inside.
To hide it, to fight it, you would try it,
you would, why deny it,
if your true to you inside your self.
It brings it's pouts, for those it's sorry,
why do you ever not ask why your full flushed lips
seem to flow that way as wine from a grape
into your mouth.
You bow the fiddle true in thought and prayer,
most will be in tombed called holy ground as water
passes by there damn they never knew.
Denied,
must hide,
the sour prim faced looks from they
of morbid mind,
haters of the man in side of it you love.
We hide from them.
It does not like being burned inside it's steak,
you loves the most.
As for the other, of he himself or her..
carefully of the curves, those trees grow large..