Look at her this time
She thinks satire is virtue
But she'd have to think I'm blind
To know not where things are
It seemed like this before
A tragedy, it is grounded
But her comedy's a bore
This I know for sure
Nothing goes unturned
Without her clever judgement
Although she can't unlearn
The things that make her burn
She feels underneath
Everything she has buried
But she know there is no grief
Of hours left each week