and so then she has to fall back on Plan B.
The land around here looks like it's been through God's own laundry press,
and it only rains every Fourth of July,
leaving the year-rounders feeling itchy and bad-tempered.
This is no place for Bo Peep, with a pink bow in her hair.
Nobody wants to hear Puccini,
but there's a snake handler under every tent.
Into this maelstrom of dust and cowshit comes Our Heroine,
by means of Plymouth automobile,
ready for a different kind of star turn.
Sick of marrying the same guy over and over,
she sets her happy ass down in front of the big yellow ball of the setting sun,
and memorizes her lines,
which are, basically,
the sort of stuff some screenwriter in L.A. thinks a girl like her might say.
Well, who cares?
Her leading man is gay anyway,
and she's doing the job for a flat fee,
so she doesn't give a flying fuck at a rolling doughnut whether it tanks or is a smash.
Tomorrow she'll rope the young actor from Indiana,
and by the time the stars come out,
he'll be rattling off nonsense about the future, and men on the moon.
She'll have shown him,
first hand and--though softly--right in his ear
how well she can yodel,
among other wondrous things.
Mixing fact with bullshit for Magpie #231.