Her nose points to the ether, to jab the stratosphere,
She’s two percent quintessence and ninety-eight veneer;
You’d think she’d been embittered as early as baptism,
With mugwort oil anointed, when the priest ran out of chrism.
She walks with ostentation, a shrewd successful cougar;
Alas, she’s barely more than a case of Dunning- Krueger;
Her kin for money bully, as vultures of one feather,
Yet they don’t have ten neurons to promptly scrape together.
You could easily fathom her sour grimace
If the back of a hearse started growing a face;
Her forced rigid smile, as she coldly stares you down
Is creepier than the dead eyes of Pennywise the clown.
Her brow, a wrinkled lemon, drives devils off in legions,
Makes horses quickly scatter and scares away the pigeons.
To scald with threats and insults she can’t resist the urge;
Her wails for a mere pittance remind you of a dirge;
With thirst and indignation, fictitious slights impugns
And speaks like she is always in dire need of prunes.
Disclaimer: This is satire. Any resemblance with actual people is purely coincidental.