Her face was almost holy,
But in truth was kind of crass
Like a baseball in a church
Hit through a window of stained glass.
Her body was like a lion,
Kind of noble, but too hairy,
And her name was like a melody
That sounded just like “Jerry.”
And as we flirted in the bed
Of her slate grey Chevy truck
Her laugh closely resembled
A mixed chihuahua and a duck.
And I drew a terrible conclusion
As sparks flew through the truck.
Jerry wasn’t a her at all,
And I’d run out of luck.
The Daily Travesty 