my my my, the skeletons shake
eviler than the empire, brighter than 70 suns?
shakier than satans spawn
chillier than the mountain dew

What to do, have a matriarch or a patriarch
chill’d to the bone through no fault of her own
fissionable patter, possibly dangerous, doesn’t matter
its the overarching axis of redondo be-atches

Less evil, more evil, believe it or not, its legal
Two flies in an ointment pot
coming to a sticky end

Less fascia, more fashion, seeping through the teapot
strains of wheat combining
coming to a glutinous end