Category: Jay Lythgoe

My gestation brings not effulgence forth. A spotty, ruddy splotch is my rough cast. This blessed plot recalls not fertile earth, But scorched terrain where purple scars will last. I have known buns in ovens smelling grand. Less scrumptious scents do waft or leak from me. I big bellied do not sail on land – Nay, waddle wretched wrecked with SPD. If babes do shift and flutter in repose A brood of teeming ferrets dwell within. And if in expecting you’d joy suppose To painful labour’s peril my thoughts spin. And yet, dear burden of my womb unmet, In clichéd love all this I shall forget.