Oh Arlene N.,
you look so mean,
With that menacing face
and unfortunate ‘stache
You always seem to mishandle my cash.
Fumbling coins and miscounting my change,
Your pronouncement of money due is never in range.
I hate to remind you but you never remember all my pills,
With you, Arlene N., it’s a battle of wills.
All I was is my synthroid,
But you deprive me, you feeling-less droid.
Please just give me my pills, each and every med;
I need them to move, I get cranky in bed.
And don’t you look at me with those beady eyes,
Your failure to fill is no surprise.
I’m tired of coming back, nearly every day,
staring at your female mustache in dismay.
Oh Arlene N., technician of Avenue B,
Did you know they sell wax here, on aisle 3?
You can use your discount to wax off that face,
And then perhaps you’ll be in a much better place.
Happier to fill my drugs and smile as I express gratitude,
Hopefully, next time I see you, we’ll both be in better moods.