by Maria Bratikova

Aha-ha. Huh!

Satire is not just a fire
That can trigger your ire.
It‘s a tricky quagmire,
when you‘re in dire.
You dive in, it‘s a weir!
Lungs burst, like a damaged tyre.

Satire pokes your glands of desire
You‘re solo-singing a choir. . .
With no one playing a lyre.
You‘re walking a live wire

Your solitude stinks in the mire
One you caused, a consuming pyre.
From it you‘re going to expire.
Dang, the picture is not dwire!

Oh my, oh my, oh my