There goes another drama queen
For whom a poem provides the means
For venting teenage spleen
It seems the queens all hurt so bad
Feeling very, very sad
Pouting, moping, getting mad
They spew emotions out, yes thanks
With feeble pens all firing blanks
About their juvenile angst
Inside each verse, another blowup
I wish that all of them would grow up
Before the rest of us all throw up
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