O! How evil must my womb be,
In which I bore thee.
What poison ran from my breast,
On which you fed like a pest
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what is wrong with the guy? No one can answer as every American has to self study and correct! so sad! This poem has the Indian flavor of motherhood!
Something twisted in the gyre, A soccer hit loosed a wire Something shorted in his brain, A spark distorted: he was insane; And no amount of mother love, No symbols such as cooing doves, Could have stopped him on that fatal journey That put those children on a gurney.