Rhyme
de Sylvia Plath(2005)
1 min lectură
Mediu
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.