You can tell me that I’m the worst one Point your scabby finger in my face Denigration tactics of every sort Your typically uncreative insults Make me cheer and cabbage patch But I won’t resort to puerile judgment or khaki I yam what I yam With dirty fingernails and carnivorous folds When people call you Olive Oyl it’s not complimentary Sure, use your stupid “wide angle lens” And poke my warm breasts In your sea bed you farm fear So who did not disgorge after extra-large meat pies Or swallow tiny chalk pills in their faded past You are not fooling anyone By tiptoeing through fields of crêpe poppies And inventing ulcers and Altoids You have lost your self, like squirrels lose nuts Worrywarts exist because there are Stones to be worried A rubbing stone in your only pocket The one you sewed on your arm Believing a craftiness might emerge To confound the ones who digest Your cohorts who order pizza With extra cheese Pepperoni and all of the meats.