My friend's fictitious, absolute.
She’s telling tales with bitter fruit.
I’m not sure why she’s singled me;
Perhaps we simply disagree.
Her lips, she puckers like a prune
To sing her altercating tune.
My closest chums dodge her debates.
Their daybooks fill with other dates.
We aim for higher raisin d’etre.
And so her stories we’ll forget.
I know that I could flip my wig,
But I don’t give a flying fig.
c2018 by Linda Ann Nickerson
Image:
Theme art – adapted from
public domain image
Still from Calamity Jane,
1953
visiting from A to Z! I laughed out loud when I read "her lips, she puckers like a prune" because my husband had an aunt (long deceased) who always had that expression!!
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