Pretentious bitch, you whisper in my ear,
as “bitch-so-named” stands up to scattered claps.
She looks the whore. I’ll bet she fucks for beer,
you snort, as “two-bit-whore” adjusts her straps.
I heard she got her tits just for tonight–
and “plastic-jugs” ascends the podium.
She’s still the poster child for cellulite,
I’m told, to your invective’s steady hum.
Can you believe she’s getting this award?
It goes to show the judges have no taste.
Look, look–her boyfriend’s even getting bored.
It’s such a waste. It’s such a fucking waste!
I sit in silence, listen, nod my head,
and wish that you had won the prize instead.

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