Mary, Mary let go of that sheep
It has bleat too loudly as we lay asleep
Feet in one steady direction
Out from the pen its throes

Mary, Mary the meadows are fresh
Though they are green only for so long
The dogs have slung them over their heads
Strung out from wayward beds

The clueless drunk shepherd that was your father
Waiting at the neck of foreign spirits
Sheathed it like a monkey peeling bananas
For a fat buck a glass, what's it to him?

Poor little sheep, shivers from the whipping air
Clouds gone too soon
For the rich merchants
With hanging gold in their mouths

Mary, Mary, poor little sheep
Jumped over the fence
Probably too hurt to walk alone
Thorns and rocks ahead
But they must have been better than the cold in his head

Letters are the building blocks of words
Words are the building blocks of poetry
Punctuation is the mortar that holds it all together
But you poets are the architects who design the poems