Roy Ernest Ballard
A Letter To The Times - Poem by Roy Ernest Ballard
Cuckolds, cuckolds all, rejoice!
For I have stilled the mocking voice
of that usurper of the nest,
that burglar with the black-barred chest,
that paedophile upon the wing:
the earliest cuckoo of the spring.
The cuckoo called; I know you hate him;
I caught and killed and cooked and ate him.
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Still I Rise
The Road Not Taken
If You Forget Me
Edgar Allan Poe
Stopping By Woods On A Snowy Evening
I Do Not Love You Except Because I Love You