It Rolls In Flavor Poem by James McLain

Still you think the part,
you play, it is done again thought over,
with you thinking of it,
as it runs around in side your head.
Your seat is still warm, printed with the moon,
a weeping face, It holds up to the the soft light.
The popped corn, languishes on the lap,
of of your wife untouched by hand.
It's ants carries the soft warm kernels away,
still dripping,
with the butter, of her the wife you lost,
when you fell asleep, watching it.
Maybe she lives to love an ant then,
maybe it is her aunt, that watches with her.
Still the kids laugh as the stool, upon witch you rest,
on top of, this your crown jewel,
is but a counter fit raisin,
that was squeezed out to soon.
The sun rises in the west,
and sets on the southern shores, where cliffs are still pink,
and her marble is rose always honey soft and full.
Looking up into the peanut gallery, it looks down on you,
happy knowing you are as brand new as the sun,
washes clean all that made down, eyed on make up.
It this the you, asks?
why dont you buy more popcorn, sit down, and fall asleep.