She walks so proud, throwing her hips,
making you believe at the taste of her lips.
At night she’s rumpled, crumpled into a bubble
filled with trouble
with no blessed oil.
Every morning she greets the world with her spine, iron clad
working for and against the bad.
She has all the power of Commander-in-Chief,
many oppose her, it’s no matter because she’s serving the beef!
There’s nothing she can’t have
because she’s just that bad.
She has it all in her tiny, empty, cold apartment
chanting the same jargon:
“it’s handled.”
But who’s going to handle her?
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Quiet Corner 