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Sneering at a leering lady |
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As she stares and squirms |
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At Wanda with her saintly smile |
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And living wig of worms |
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I like to watch their faces fall |
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As we disgust and shame them |
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Seeking suckers is my game |
|
- no longer lion taming. |
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Like a pink and pregnant pumpkin |
|
Perched upon her neck |
|
Wanda Wadkins head was hurting |
|
It was bitten by insects |
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I watched the awkward way she waddled |
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Walking to the pail |
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She always used to wash her worms |
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And clean beneath her nails |
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I love the soul I see inside her |
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But I just can't love her |
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Folding fat that rolls around |
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Like bowling balls in butter. |
