You google a line

from a Mary Ruefle poem, and learn that the internet thinks that the inquiry “I feed my sorrow eggs” means you are looking for “When can babies eat eggs?” and conclude that sorrow is a baby or a baby is sorrow.

All of these people walking around with their sorrows strapped to their chests.

All of these babies filling people with woe.

You have to take care of your sorrow.

You have to let it grow up.

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