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Fame is a fickle food
Upon a shifting plate
Whose table once a
Guest but not
The second time is set.
Whose crumbs the crows inspect
And with ironic caw
Flap past it to the
Farmer's Corn-
Men eat of it and die.
Fame Is A Fickle Food
Emily Dickinson
(1)
Poem topics: food, time, inspect, Print This Poem , Rhyme Scheme
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