A precious pop princess has picked a new fight.
It’s childish, generic and dreadfully trite.
Non-confrontational biscuit she is…
Taylor Swift wrote a song, claiming it was all biz.
She’s acquired a new target to fuel her delusion.
Her Bad Blood’s so toxic she needs a transfusion.
Fear not, Joe, John, Jake, Taylor, Conor and Harry,
This new one has balls, but her last name is Perry.
“It’s not about boys or her glorious rack,”
“She’s competitive, stabbing me right in my back!”
“We’re straight up enemies…my tour was at stake!”
“She’s nasty, throws shade and she’s totally fake!”
“She’s a Roaring Dark Horse, a Firework of a gal,”
“I’m not kidding, you guys, she’s
just so not my pal!”
Spewing passive aggression as fodder for sale,
Her wide-eyed adorable shtick has grown stale.
Swift’s rift shall be marketed far, near, and wide…
Even Dunham can’t transform such humorless pride.
So move over feminists, Poehler and Fey,
Your “special place in hell” gets one more to flambé.