Ma’s ire, ma’s ire. . .
Brain crawling with ma’s ire.

This way-out, scary lad ain’t tamed
The flames of chick desire.
Like dame he’s dressed, with knife bestowed,
His brain crawling with ma’s ire.

Ma’s ire grows, and dark abounds
And sends him out for spyin’.
Ma’s ire makes him put on gowns.
And croak that girl—pared, dyin’.

Ma’s ire, ma’s ire,
Dame-shawled, id with ma’s ire.

Before he knew ma’s ire, tame
Was the lad, not repinin’.
She was his girl, but one day he
Found her with a guy reclinin’.

Twisted, he made then fed his girl
And her dude food strychniny.
That’s when he lost his mind and crossed
The line ’twixt guy and gynie.

Man-spire’s on fire.
Dame-ball? “Nix!” says ma’s ire.

This way-out, scary lad thus damed
Found ways not to be lonely.
He got ma stuffed, mimicked her moans. . .
A wicked, wizened crony.

Though he ain’t lost his bone, this man—
When he wants it inside she’s,
Ma’s ire stokes the enmity—
This rude gal can’t abide she’s.

Ma’s ire, ma’s ire
Ain’t stallin’, quick ma’s ire.

Ma’s ire, ma’s ire
Knows no boundaries.