“Mama Mia,” “Mama Mia,” such a lame tune,
Monster hit, still—makes me ill but drives fans wild. . .
find it thrilling, but I’m willing to defame; soon
I’ll do “Mama Mia” running down a while.

A turnstile bar I would rather, “Mama Mia,”
be smacked with each day than listen to the “art”
of that whiny group ABBA—they upset
me when their fare is on the air.
Use, those wardrobe-clad queens, “Mama Mia”
in their dance numbers;
grumble I and then depart.

I turn, smile. . .a bar where none plays “Mama Mia.”
I’m so grateful, a super-sized slug I scarf.
Then a man stirs to play a jukebox set:
it ain’t “Spell” fare or such swell fare.
This is unreal: out peals “Mama Mia”!
I moan and groan, run for the throne, in which I barf.

“Mama Mia!” Can’t be fleein’ ya!!!