Bottom of the Ninth
Constant disappointment; claiming men are of no use;
She’s perfumed with applications; of oils that’s from a muse.
Pointing with her fingers; from the prison she is in;
Claiming that her life is sad; and soon to come to end.
Screaming accusations; from there behind a fence;
With her higher education; she still affords no sense.
Virgin oil salad; meats in Wesson oil;
An adolescent balled; with undergarments soiled.
Someone help the people; that are near where she has been;
They must be glad when she has gone; but then she comes again.
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