Lemonade

A spoonful of the macabre helps all that sugar go down,
All that sugar, Sugar,
In the lemonade.
The Novocaine
To ease the pain
From all the squeezing of the brain,
To get to the pulp of the matter.
The cursing of the wretched wench,
The self imagined demonette,
 Uninvited to the banquette,
And the tea party too.
 Her constitution a resolution of revenge,
Unhinged by rejection,
Upon further inspection,
A prescription for her in a padded room,
Company for all the doom
She had hidden in her agenda.
 Three times through the looking glass?
How utterly without class.
Decent people would not have asked,
The buffet is closed.
There’s nothing there to eat,
Only artificial ingredients
And pretenders.
I use real sugar here dear,
Not Splenda,
And if the Truvia be known,
I clean the meat right off the bones,
In the broad daylight,
Why wait around ’til midnight,
For plucking eyes of hypocrites,
To fry up with my grits,
Or peeling the skin of a toad?
The kind I’ve never seen on the high road.
Why wait to unload,
If Eliza Doolittle carries an Uzi,
On her hip, 
And a full clip?
A spoonful of the macabre helps all that sugar go down,
All that sugar, Sugar,
In my lemonade.


Categories: Poetry

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