There’s more to her than meets the eye
Never an admirer of automation of chores
Feels right at home, among dykes and whores
She’s pretty averse to the idea of clothes
Children of all kinds she loathes
Not quite the rebel for a virgin cause
Counting down the days to her menopause
Spits out feminist anthems full of spite
From behind the anonymity of her website
Mortally dislikes all human contact
Considers love to be something abstract
With her blood she would like to paint
And she spits on you if you call her quaint
Doesn’t like to drink, and she don’t do drugs
Watches television lying naked on the rugs
Neo-pagan rituals she performs with a chalice
Even though her heart be ripe with malice
Dreams of the day when she'd live with witches
As continually in her basement her mother stitches
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