Upon the throne where she does sit
used to be my place of rest.
She waddles through the door each day,
with her opinions does she play.
Gays are best friends well-deserved,
and Bush, he's sent us to the dirt.
Oh, she loves a good debate
when someone dies and someone prays.
Her problems bounce above our heads
and she loves to break our bread.
Boys, boys, boys- she loves to sing
but she's no model or beauty queen.
It takes two to wrap their arms
around her waist without much harm.
Still, she protests she'll get a guy
and she's the best thing in her eyes.
Her mistakes are all of our's
and her fault is unheard of.
She skips class for thick doughnuts
and blames Vicky over us.
She mixes papers and loses them,
and points to me to put blame on.
Well, I've had enough of her,
I'm not petty, but I'm still a girl.
I want to smack her across the face,
but somehow I don't think she'd move a place.
She might flinch or close her eyes,
but she's got too much skin to fly.
 
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