Frothing at the Mouth
It infuriates me
And froths my mouth
That pushy bull, “Bethel-A-hole,”
Corralled me into her “pen”
To write for her “pad” —
Her newsletter, that is!
Then tried to whiplash me
Into my own automobile,
To further wrap
The noose about my neck,
Then squeeze it —
She’s another hornet like Irit —
I can’t take such shit!
Betsy-boots, who roota-toot-toots
Her own flutes and horn,
Is another controller like them —
Another old hen full of “corn.”
Let’s nip the wings of the Royal B’s —
Clip them down to size.
Whoever succeeds at this enterprise
Should certainly win first prize!