This cold-land girl can’t write; she ain’t quite smart—just in one way:
She landed a scribbler who could tell her just what to say.
Now she has pounded out the pulp for those who drop their jaw
When “author” winks her eye and opens up her loudy maw.

Some publisher handed her several million in the deal.
Were Abby Hoffman here, he’d squeal, “This ain’t a book to steal!”
The Barnumesque moral is that there’s always folks who’ll buy
What the real writer has pumped out: merd-
ivorously steaming pie.

Sticky pie, whoa!
Icky pie, way!
Faux writer pays to lie.

She headed south from frozen tracts where the sun never sets—
A San Diego hack lands the contract, and then she’s set.
The hack is no slacker, bent her back and effort did apply
To “Going Rogue,” a bogus-tract hack job passed off as “I.”

The ghost’s from sunny Socal and Lynn Vincent is her name,
And she will aid North troll who’s a Nome name, bolster her fame.
Well, cowpies that drop on the range make fragrance that I’d try
Before I’d sniff this pile of shit that stinks to heaven high.

Slipp’ry pie, whoa!
Shitty pie, way!
Ghost writer’s paid to lie,
Faux writer pay is high.
Dolt righters pay to buy.