I Am a Good Little Poodle

I am a Good Little Poodle. I sold. Bitch, don't be hatin' on me just cause EBAYers wanted me and didn't want you. And I didn't just sell. I started a bidding war. Forty eight years was long enough to stand next to your pathology. I was mummified in your constant complaints. Sex? What's that? That ended in the sixties. You haven't given up any sugar since the Johnson Administration. Here's a little secret...I would have bid on myself to get away from you. And yes, when I open my mouth people get hot. Didn't let myself go, either. Can still bring the same game I had when you used to beg for it. Don't be hatin' on me for that either. When's the last time you stretched your jaw for something other than a Thomas's English Muffin? Oh well. There's still the RELIST. Good luck with that. Maybe if you wiped that smug look off your snout. Even Mother Teresa would flash a smile occasionally. Even with leprosy all over her hands. Why? Because twat knew the Pope was watching her. Too bad you couldn't do the same for your man. Now someone else is doing it all for him every night, and it's just eating you up like intestinal parasites, ain't it, girl? Hey, ask him to send you Parcel Post. Maybe someone will be interested if he cheapens it down a bit.