I`ve got a stubborn goose whose gut`s Honeycombed with golden eggs, Yet won`t lay one. She, addled in her goose-wit, struts The barnyard like those taloned hags Who ogle men And crimp their wrinkles in a grin, Jangling their great money bags. While I eat grits She fattens on the finest grain. Now, as I hone my knife, she begs Pardon, and that`s So humbly done, I`d turn this keen Steel on myself before profit By such a rogue`s Act, but —- How those feathers shine! Exit from a smoking slit Her ruby dregs.SourceThe script ran 0.001 seconds.
The script ran 0.001 seconds.
