a scowling angry face, his hair up in a bun

I felt wurst when his sausage like fingers, pulled out a nasty gun

in case you didn’t catch it, that last line was a pun

I was in a pickle, but my legs wouldn’t run

I made doodle in my pants, it felt like a ton

I didn’t want to die out here, in this hot orange sun

who knew that the blond was his, I was just having a little fun

was he a scrooge with women, over such an ugly one

then he shot me down, over his homely hon

now that I am dead, I think this poem is done

there is no chance in hell, that I could have possibly won