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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=529050" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Pickle Belt</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=529050" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">The fruit rolled by all day.<br>They prayed the cogs would creep;<br>They thought about Saturday pay,<br>And Sunday sleep.</a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=529050" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">Whatever he smelled was good:<br>The fruit and flesh smells mixed.<br>There beside him she stood,--<br>And he, perplexed;</a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=529050" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">He, in his shrunken britches,<br>Eyes rimmed with pickle dust,<br>Prickling with all the itches<br>Of sixteen-year-old lust.</a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><a href="http://poems.citatepedia.com/">poem</a> by <strong><a rel="author" href="http://authors.citatepedia.com/by.php?a=Theodore+Roethke">Theodore Roethke</a></strong></div>

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