My Dearest Lindsey,
You insipid bladder of vinegar, water, and self-loathing. There is much I’m stirred to write, but I must follow my first instinct, inspired by Shakespeare’s Sonnet 18, which I am renaming in your honor.
Without further ado, I present:
Shall I compare thee to a Summer’s Eve?
Thou art less fragrant, yet so desperate.
One might suggest you’re trying to deceive:
Create something extreme to cause an upset.
Subpoena-O-Rama’s guest list is elite—
Pressure’s on the feckless invitees
Is M’Lady’s aim distraction via Tweet?
Or symptom of Stage 4 Hypocrisies?
Despite your shrill and panicked declaration,
I have no fears this plan will come to be.
We’re stronger with each threatened regulation.
FUCK YOU, WE DO NOT FEAR YOU, LADY G!
Until the day men birth, they have no say;
Until we win this war, we fight each day.