A thing written from listening to a program on the radio about Dorothy Parker.

“What fresh Hell is this?”

cried Dorothy,

At the sound of the bell.

“A ‘hello’ will do!” the voice

Answered through

The letterbox “Or a how-do-you-do, would do nicely, too!”

“Oh, great!” exasperated Dorothy, as she unlocked the locks.

“I wondered if…” said the visitor, with a sniff,

“Whether you’d like to try,

And buy, some socks?”

“No!” roared Dorothy,

“On your house be a pox!”

And started to re-lock the newly unlocked locks.

“And if you return,

I shall poor boiling oil

From the roof on your off’rings so skanky;

You have upset my mood,

Which is incredibly rude,

Now I must off

For to seek me a hanky!”

The salesman retreated,

His task now defeated,

His “socks” still unsold in his case;

But, he wasn’t dismayed,

By no sale being made,

And a sly smile was now seen on his face;

He’d return the next day,

And he’d make her pay

He’d sell her the wares that he carried;

For, no salesman was he,

There were no socks to see;

He was the poor schmuck that Dorothy’d married.

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