WHIMSICAL POETRY

Mary, Mary, quite contrary,
your garden is fading fast..
No silver bells, few cockle shells,
Your pretty maidens can no longer last.

Mary, Mary, life is scary.
Your fairy tale garden is gone.
But pretend all is well,
with your maidens and bells,
Maybe they'll come back by dawn.

"Mary, my dear, are your maidens near?
Are they playing outside in the rain?"
(I'll pretend all is well, so no one can tell)
"Yes, they're playing. They'll come back again."

Mary, Mary, quite contrary,
I no longer hear the rain.
I'm not a fool, although you act cool.
I don't think they'll come back again.