In truth, I’m sick to death of dirty girls
who swear like thugs, and merrily break wind.
They chop their best friends into little bits,
but bray like mules when bastards break their hearts.
In truth, I’m scared to death of dirty girls,
for there is no condition of the soul,
or crisis in the fitful shifts of fate
that their atrocious drama won’t make worse.
Now mark me, I am settling into this
dyspeptic discourse, wondering all the while:
at what point will some hell-enraged girl
burst through the door to throw the gauntlet down?
Will she want me to arbitrate some quarrel,
or will she wield a homemade birthday card?
The other day I stopped a dirty girl
from beating up a stoner from Long Island
by letting him slink off to God-knows-where .
Now, I am called to task: I stopped one fight
by setting up three more. I whacked a mole,
and three more moles arose to mock me. Mark:
a dirty girl may well have cost me this
horrendous job! A dirty girl may yet
deliver me to squalor, and to shame!
Touche! To all you Holy Janes and Joes
who used to lecture me for wasting time
with bad companions! I have come to grief,
and all I had to do was stand my post:
a dirty girl has been my ruin! ‘zounds!
But Soft! It seems the very dirty girl
whose bald aggression motivated me
to shield a marijuana-addled lad
from reddish death has nominated me
as Teacher of the Year! This dirty girl
has looked beyond her rage to my resolve
to read her wretched prose, and suffer through
each ream of her bathetic poetry!
Now all the surly members of the board
have come to stand behind the dirty girl
and my ennobled self as we are snapped
by paparazzi. Soon I will be seen
along with this completely filthy girl
in Who’s Who, and The Doomsday Journal News.