The Times Are Tidy Unlucky the hero born In this province of the stuck record Where the most watchful cooks go jobless And the mayor's rotisserie turns Round of its own accord. There's no career in the venture Of riding against the lizard, Himself withered these latter-days To leaf-size from lack of action: History's beaten the hazard. The last crone got burnt up More than eight decades back With the love-hot herb, the talking cat, But the children are better for it, The cow milks cream an inch thick. —Sylvia Plath --

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