|3||'On Modern Woman'|
|6||Caged... Like A Three Legged Pig.|
|8||Don'T Think Too Much Into This Poem|
|9||Hey, Cruel World|
|11||I'M A Cool, Cool Cat|
|12||Idle In June|
|13||My Dear Child|
|14||So Petty, The Concerns Of Man|
|15||You Grind Your Teeth When You Sleep|
|Idle In June|
| She dares not let the world hear her speak, |
She's getting thin and looking meek,
A grey hair is splitting in her widows peak
She lays idle in the month of June.
Her hands are cracked and stained from mud,
although she bathes in lathered suds
There's a little of me inside her blood
She lays idle in . . .
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| Despair, |
A hole dug deep,
By bloody fingernails,
By the strongest of men.
Many hands have scaled,
Her endless, dirty walls.
I bite my fingers in anticipation,
I taste nothing but mud,
My poor, cracked fingernails.
You no longer see,
Blinding . . .
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