A fat lady,
With a red, oozing pimple,
In the middle of her face,
Squeezed one more tomato.
Her brown hands clutched,
Burst that fruit,
Onto her print dress, maybe.

Nearby, a rain-soaked cat,
Curves of muscle,
Visible beneath skin
Covered with a leotard.
Eyes wide, aware, she peered,
Surveyed the shuk,
Witnessed the forced fruit, maybe.

Thereafter, a gang of children,
Skipping
Punctuation, good grammar, manners,
Pinched the lady.
They crowded the cat, while
Merrily stuffing bon mots
Into their coats, maybe.