I've got a stubborn goose whose gut's <br />Honeycombed with golden eggs, <br />Yet won't lay one. <br />She, addled in her goose-wit, struts <br />The barnyard like those taloned hags <br />Who ogle men <br /> <br />And crimp their wrinkles in a grin, <br />Jangling their great money bags. <br />While I eat grits <br />She fattens on the finest grain. <br />Now, as I hone my knife, she begs <br />Pardon, and that's <br /> <br />So humbly done, I'd turn this keen <br />Steel on myself before profit <br />By such a rogue's <br />Act, but —- How those feathers shine! <br /> <br />Exit from a smoking slit <br />Her ruby dregs.<br /><br />Sylvia Plath<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/rhyme-24/
