The Fuss Pot

Chuck the witch she doesn’t matter,

All old crones just moan and natter.

Petty gripes fall from her mouth,

Her lips agape like gormless trout.

Neurotic faff about bland things,

Petty triumphs to her Great Wins

Oh what will she say today,

Of things that matter? (I say nay!)

Babbling on about the weather,

Whining non stop OH, THE TERROR!

The Sharron, Karen, Darren goss’,

Bores me sleepy, I’m snoring lots.

Good hard worker? Very true

(But also a suspicious shrew).

The only ones that can abide

Her presence are the deaf and blind

She may have been this way from birth,

But Christ Almighty,

‘The Change’ made her worse.


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