Death of a Tart
Betty Crocker…Betty Crock!
Betty better take stock.
After hours saddle block
looks like vodka,
what a shock.
It blurs the clock
that’s all she cares
numbs the nerves
like freezer burn.
Cooked up, burned out
boxed in, lost to pages
long since yellowed
from stagnant shelf-sitting.
Can she borrow just one more Cup?
Just enough to finish what she started
then right back on the shelf…promise!
right next to recycled obscurity.
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