January 20, 2011
Dear Diary,
We're supposed to write a song for Music Class. Ms. Mattins, the teacher, is an ogre in real life. How do I know? Her breath smells like my gym socks and her skin is green. Seriously. Anyway, I'll write my song draft in here. It's supposed to be for Ms. Mattins since she's going to be retiring in June.
'You're breath smells like stinky cheese
Gym socks and a moldy sandwich.
Your eyes are as yellow as a hive full of bees
And you have the same skin color as the grinch.
You wear clothes like you're stuck in the sixties,
And your voice makes me wanna scream
Your perfume smells like the underside of a geese
And your armpits smell like sour cream!
Oh Ms. Mattins, I'll be glad when you retire
We don't have to sing songs anymore
Oh Ms. Mattins, your hair's like a rubber tire
Oh Ms. Mattins, I'll see you out the door!'
You think she'll like it?
With all the lovey-dovey love I can muster,
Dan