Author A. K. Ramanujan In his place, mother, mud-spattered spotted crabs sneak into holes at the root of the nightshade. O what's the point of his marrying me then with sweet talk, and saying these other things now? Rate this poem Select ratingGive it 1/5Give it 2/5Give it 3/5Give it 4/5Give it 5/5 No votes yet Rate Log in or register to post comments