by James von Dielingen
I know a girl named Phyllis; I've known her for a while.
She will punch you in the teeth, kick your shins, and crack a smile.
When you're where no one can hear you with no car, no bike, no phone,
She will break your leg and leave you and command you to walk home.
When you are hurt and bleeding she will always be contented
To rub salt in your wounds because she's overly demented.
I tried to run away one day while Phyllis wasn't looking
And now I'm crumpled in a ball and in the oven cooking.
I tell you, friend, if I were you I'd start right now to run
Oh no! She saw you! Hurry! Quick! Phyllis has a gun!
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