Sylvia Plath


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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