A Birthday That Isn't

Today would have been Sylvia Plath's seventy-fifth birthday. Well, it could have been and might have been, if she hadn't...you know.



Little Sylvia Plath
Was filled with wrath.
When she needed a muse
She looked to Ted Hughes.



For some reason--presumably my cold--I got a case of clerihews on the brain yesterday evening. Tricky stuff to shake off. So here's some more:



Miss Sylvia Plath
Loved a hot bath.
She got wet behind the ears
Listening to the music of the spheres.



A Scorpio, Plath,
Chose the poetic path,
Forgetting babies and rhymes
Only mix some o' th' times.

Sylvia Plath
Had no head for math,
And she wrote many verses
On her aversion to nurses.



Sylvia Plath
Got lost on the path;
When her soul for poems she decided to dredge,
She ended up stopped at "Edge".



Given the limited number of rhymes for Plath, I figured I was perilously close to having her outgrabe a mome rath and managed to stop there. (Well, with the Plath ones anyway--ask me about the Ranma 1/2 ones, I dare ya--and actually I'm leaving out one on grounds it violated good taste.) Feel free to add your Plath clerihews and hate mail to the comments box.