Rhyme Poem by Sylvia Plath
Rhyme
I've got a stubborn goose whose gut's
Honeycombed with golden eggs,
Yet won't lay one.
She, addled in her goose-wit, struts
The barnyard like those taloned hags
Who ogle men
And crimp their wrinkles in a grin,
Jangling their great money bags.
While I eat grits
She fattens on the finest grain.
Now, as I hone my knife, she begs
Pardon, and that's
So humbly done, I'd turn this keen
Steel on myself before profit
By such a rogue's
Act, but —- How those feathers shine!
Exit from a smoking slit
Her ruby dregs.
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5/19/2024 10:06:02 PM # 1.0.0.1119
What right had she to talk about such a subject. Daddy that did not threat her as her disorder required Issues. So pays the hen, analogue without nothing but little and narrow mindedness. My mother used to execute Hens playing God. My uncle tortured them with little grains of lead so they had to be terminated, So I perfectly understand why that is wrong and a practice from atavism, brute type personalities. What a shame, maybe a moment of anger or the apple that does not fall far..