a scowling angry face, his hair up in a bun
I felt wurst when his sausage like fingers, pulled out a nasty gun
in case you didn’t catch it, that last line was a pun
I was in a pickle, but my legs wouldn’t run
I made doodle in my pants, it felt like a ton
I didn’t want to die out here, in this hot orange sun
who knew that the blond was his, I was just having a little fun
was he a scrooge with women, over such an ugly one
then he shot me down, over his homely hon
now that I am dead, I think this poem is done
there is no chance in hell, that I could have possibly won
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