These geese, man, they hunt
In feral packs, snakes stacked
On top of chicken breasts,
You know, one hissed at me
Just for putting my hand
On the small of its back?
These mini medusas have
Aggressive business practices,
They’re mean, angry
Things with wings, man,
And I guess we aren’t supposed
To send them bread pics,
Or hug them without asking first,
And if we dare to stare too long,
They turn our profits into stone.
These geese, they don’t
Even smile, they refuse to wear
High heels, and stalk the sales floor
In those ugly raptor feet.
These geese are mean, man,
It’s like they want us to back off,
But that can’t be. Of course not,
They all want us to pet them—
Why else would they be so soft?