Sylvia Plath





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 r´tisserie turns
Round of its own accord.

There's no career in the venture
Of riding against the lizard,
Himself withered these latter-daysT
o 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 milk's cream an inch thick.