Dear Lil’ Lindy, most sturdy and proud,
Feminist darling o’ the left leaning crowd.
Fearlessly typing to further her cause,
To smash all injustice, to change all our laws.
Dear Lil’ Lindy, she wasn’t the type,
To improve on her flaws, but instead she would gripe,
That it’s up to society to accept how she was,
At 800 pounds, she deserved our applause.
Dear Lil’ Lindy, her first unborn daughter,
Sucked up through a hose, a clinical slaughter.
She braced herself in for her daughter’s excision,
For it was only hers, not her baby’s decision.
Dear Lil’ Lindy, her first unborn boy,
Scraped clean from her womb, so she could enjoy,
Unlimited freedom to stoke her career,
To incite in her enemies undeserved fear.
One day in September two-thousand-fifteen,
While ceaselessly stuffing her face with cuisine,
An idea to advance her career even further,
A story to glorify pre-natal murder.
Her Twitter lit up and the campaign had started,
“It’s a medical procedure so Fuck You!” she farted.
“#Shout your abortion, embrace it, be proud,
Of the choices you’ve made, don't hide b'hind a shroud!”
As the eve of her fortieth birthday was nigh,
She discovered her readership wasn’t as high,
As the glorious days of her kid killing column,
How once again could her readership blossom?
Years of her typing and the battles were won,
Free sex change procedures, they’d outlawed all guns.
No battles remained in her fame seeking bid,
Only one option left, she’d mother a kid.
A child would provide her unlimited material,
Of issues to pad her new work most ethereal.
She’d raise him to realise that mother was right,
That women are righteous and men are a blight.
One problem, th’ one man in the land she could find,
To marry her, wasn’t the muff loving kind.
That their marriage was sexless didn’t seem to her strange,
But today was the one day that all this would change.
“Dear husband,” she shrieked. “I’ve summoned you here,
To ravish my loins you cum-catching queer.”
Her husband, while carefully avoiding her glances,
Politely refused her amorous advances.
Lindy employing her ham fisted hocks,
Relentlessly beating him, shot after shot.
Quivering, shaking like a downtrodden runt,
He resigned to his fate, to impregnate her cunt.
As Lindy began to un’shamedly strip,
He cowered in fear as her clothes downward slipped.
And on gazing upon her enormous proportions,
His stomach convulsed in revolted contortions.
But driven by fear of his terrible wife,
And driven by desire to continue his life,
With both hands he lifted the folds of her gut,
Repulsed at the sight of the hole he would nut.
He positioned himself o’er her quivering Sarlacc,
Ignoring the groans of anguish from his sack.
But try as he might, he could not get it up,
His singular option, to jerk in a cup.
“It’s a medical procedure,” Lil’ Lindy did clamour,
In the IVF clinic in her self-assured manner.
“Oh dear darling husband, I’m so glad we waited,
For my miracle child which will soon be created.”
Physicians and experts did all they could for her,
But after five years they eventually assured her,
Her fallopian tubes had both withered to dust,
Resembling the texture of mouldy bread crusts.
Zoological experts, the pachyderm kind,
Were summoned from zoos, from lands far and wide.
They looked at her, silently shaking their heads,
Her fertility now irreversibly dead.
She stomped both her feet with most venomous bile,
But anger alone couldn’t make her fertile.
She continued to type, to enrage all her haters,
And died all alone as her cats slowly ate her.
Dear Lil’ Lindy just couldn’t avoid,
A cold barren womb, a meaningless void.
She could’ve avoided this tragic life sin,
If she’d put down the doughnuts, and went to the gym.
Feminist darling o’ the left leaning crowd.
Fearlessly typing to further her cause,
To smash all injustice, to change all our laws.
Dear Lil’ Lindy, she wasn’t the type,
To improve on her flaws, but instead she would gripe,
That it’s up to society to accept how she was,
At 800 pounds, she deserved our applause.
Dear Lil’ Lindy, her first unborn daughter,
Sucked up through a hose, a clinical slaughter.
She braced herself in for her daughter’s excision,
For it was only hers, not her baby’s decision.
Dear Lil’ Lindy, her first unborn boy,
Scraped clean from her womb, so she could enjoy,
Unlimited freedom to stoke her career,
To incite in her enemies undeserved fear.
One day in September two-thousand-fifteen,
While ceaselessly stuffing her face with cuisine,
An idea to advance her career even further,
A story to glorify pre-natal murder.
Her Twitter lit up and the campaign had started,
“It’s a medical procedure so Fuck You!” she farted.
“#Shout your abortion, embrace it, be proud,
Of the choices you’ve made, don't hide b'hind a shroud!”
As the eve of her fortieth birthday was nigh,
She discovered her readership wasn’t as high,
As the glorious days of her kid killing column,
How once again could her readership blossom?
Years of her typing and the battles were won,
Free sex change procedures, they’d outlawed all guns.
No battles remained in her fame seeking bid,
Only one option left, she’d mother a kid.
A child would provide her unlimited material,
Of issues to pad her new work most ethereal.
She’d raise him to realise that mother was right,
That women are righteous and men are a blight.
One problem, th’ one man in the land she could find,
To marry her, wasn’t the muff loving kind.
That their marriage was sexless didn’t seem to her strange,
But today was the one day that all this would change.
“Dear husband,” she shrieked. “I’ve summoned you here,
To ravish my loins you cum-catching queer.”
Her husband, while carefully avoiding her glances,
Politely refused her amorous advances.
Lindy employing her ham fisted hocks,
Relentlessly beating him, shot after shot.
Quivering, shaking like a downtrodden runt,
He resigned to his fate, to impregnate her cunt.
As Lindy began to un’shamedly strip,
He cowered in fear as her clothes downward slipped.
And on gazing upon her enormous proportions,
His stomach convulsed in revolted contortions.
But driven by fear of his terrible wife,
And driven by desire to continue his life,
With both hands he lifted the folds of her gut,
Repulsed at the sight of the hole he would nut.
He positioned himself o’er her quivering Sarlacc,
Ignoring the groans of anguish from his sack.
But try as he might, he could not get it up,
His singular option, to jerk in a cup.
“It’s a medical procedure,” Lil’ Lindy did clamour,
In the IVF clinic in her self-assured manner.
“Oh dear darling husband, I’m so glad we waited,
For my miracle child which will soon be created.”
Physicians and experts did all they could for her,
But after five years they eventually assured her,
Her fallopian tubes had both withered to dust,
Resembling the texture of mouldy bread crusts.
Zoological experts, the pachyderm kind,
Were summoned from zoos, from lands far and wide.
They looked at her, silently shaking their heads,
Her fertility now irreversibly dead.
She stomped both her feet with most venomous bile,
But anger alone couldn’t make her fertile.
She continued to type, to enrage all her haters,
And died all alone as her cats slowly ate her.
Dear Lil’ Lindy just couldn’t avoid,
A cold barren womb, a meaningless void.
She could’ve avoided this tragic life sin,
If she’d put down the doughnuts, and went to the gym.