March May June and I

Lost within the phantasmal mime
slowly turtle whittle rhyme
to make the Mary meet,
twas here she says the sands were time
but the shoes were nigh the fit,
and every crooked shell she finds
is buried deep the darkest minds
where rabbit suffers curdling whine
and forever somewhere is set divine
along the favored pith,
but June May follow along the weigh
on coming with every flora
dash the spring and terse the noose
that chides the way for summers plethora,
making gusts for turtles chimes
as he fiddles his home from out sublime
and dons his napping cat mistime
to wake forlorn for dinner.

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