Some scribblings recently found in the back of an old notebook. Not Byron or even remotely good, but it make me laugh to read it again.
Oh young woman, on the corner's street,
Why does your laugh sound so fake?
Your eyes be long with blackened paint
Your hair be straight, of unnatural make
You squark and strut like that rooster's mate
With ruffled feathers and an injected hide-
You are like the chickens stuffed with paste
That at my grocery store are daily fried
And consumed, as part of Sunday lunches
Devoured by culture with many munches
Meat broken off and bones thrown away-
My dear, is that not you today?