I knew a girl who sang so bad
Milk turned to butter as it got sad.
She was banned from visiting farms,
Or singing with groceries in her arms.
Thinking her only option was to be a hermit,
Giving up joys of society, such as Kermit.
Then she was approached by a multinational,
With a good offer, fair and rational.
They wanted her to work in their shop,
Singing all day to farm a brand new crop.
“We’re launching a line of butter-like goo,
With the tag line ‘It’s not milk any-moo.’
You’d be perfect to streamline the production,
Plus, your passion would get some suction.
We would record every song you sing,
Use them in the ads with some added zing.
You’d be heard by millions of clients,
And it’d be harmless due to our science,
We’d tinker with the sound and take away the curdle,
With auto tune, it’s not much of a hurdle.
If you’re in, just sign here in blood,
Oh wait, no, I meant ‘sign to bloom your bud’.
Ehem, never mind that, what say you?
Will you sign and make your dream come true?”