In Thyme, all wounds are bound to heal
(At least, that’s what the wizened say),
where I wound many a green with zeal,
as herbal healing was my trade.

A flower maiden sallied there
(for Sally was her nom de bloom)
where dandy line men petalled wears—
She’d come to pick a living groom.

Averse to versers with re-seeding
hair, she searched through minuscule,
amusing, musing, spieling, preening,
yellow, lyrical legules.

At last the lass found one worth hitching
and plucked him from his green-leafed hearth
to learn, alas, that in the picking,
she done did-in that “living” part.

So Sally sallied forth to me,
her dandy man cupped in her hands,
and I bowled him away with tea
where now he sprouts poetigrams.

In Thyme, he healed poetically.
(Aint that a dandy slipper line?)
They wed amongst aroom lilies,
and s’far as I know, their doing’s fine.