Joan Jones
Joan Jones hates scones.
She throws, at them, stones.
She throws those stones with all the tone in her bones.
Her angry moans as the stones had flown
were as a drone of an off-the-line phone.
For Joan’s lone loathing of scone’s she’d known
since childhood’ve grown, and since infancy shown.
And if one’s not careful, their cover is blown.
A scone makes its way into poor Mr. Jones;
why couldn’t he have eaten a few ice cream cones?
Joan said, “I thought I knew you, Mr. Jones.
Your consumption has shown that I should now live alone.”
For making snap decisions Ms. Joan was so prone;
but it at this point, Sir Jones has the long-piece wishbone.
She minds not trombones, clones, cologne or calzones,
but here in Joan Zone all scone owners disowned.
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