If it were a contest you’d win dead to writes
‘cause I ain’t got the luxury of
standing at the mike all Starbucks day
and whiskey chicks night
Would rather watch you conflagrate
your audience into flames with your high
definition diction and flirtatious fictionary fables
You are more than your usual mainstream matador
red crimson cape flying with the electrocardiographic effect
of leaving your audience stunned on the kitchen floor
with their unworthy worded medical conditions
and redundant rhyme conspiracies
Need to get your monkey off my
back and go to rehab, but I'll be reading
all your brand new Mondays
in the winter of my meantime

Written by Sara Fielder © May 2015