Control was a thing for her,
Her little mammalian clutches,
Her power-dress approach,
She had to grasp tightly upon the world,
She had to be in charge of all.
A shrew, 'mouse-like insectivorous mammal' Oxford says,
Wearing black, or pink.
With a grasp of language, that grasps the entire thing.
And a nastiness most women wrongly admire.
Estuary, or General American she had best speak,
There is nothing received about her, an insectivorous mammal, as of yet.
She does not inhabit temperate climes,
It is all snow, and ice, and deathly heat.
Control; was a thing... for her.
Control of her prey, her unwitting surrounding movements.
If you encounter her, or in the Western World, sometimes him,
Stop still, slowly back away.
And run swiftly, when you are out of her sight,
For movement attracts her, fear, she adores.
Control - was - a - thing - for - her.
Her power-dress approach,
Her tight grasp upon the air-pipe of the world.
Estuary, or General American, she had best speak.
Street, street, street. She chases you down with street.
Shrew, her thing. Pink or black, she wears,
With high heel boots,
The better to pounce, the better to maul,
The better to attach you with her un-brushed teeth,
The better to control you, with her nagging screech.
Shrew, untamed, she is a force upon the unwitting world.
But upon me? I stand deadly still, and slowly back away.
Shrew, you shall not tame me.
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