She’s my little girl; like a dervish she’ll whirl—
wears just a few clothes when she’s on
the stage; she has a yen to twerk, suggestive-bend.
Some critics say it’s way too far she’s gone.

Her schlock may cause harm and raise an alarm:
rollers think that she’s Babylon’s whore
for shakin’ of those hips and pursing pumped-up lips,
while other people think she’s just a bore.

OK, she’s a tart, a makey-shaky tart,
but that don’t mean she should be banned.
You couldn’t call it art, her makey-shaky tart act
most music lovers have panned.

But then there’s her pa—that’s I who have a maw
that sang a song of auditory dregs. . .
an aural pile of shit, and still it was a hit.
Compared to my crap, hers is Triple A.

Take those lyrics—please! as old Youngman might tease. . .
inane; in pain am I each time they play.
When I see Miley grind, it somehow does remind me
that Weird Al really nailed it this way:

“Don’t play that song, that Achy-Breaky song;
you know I hate that song a bunch.
And if you play that song,
that nauseating song,
it might just make me lose my lunch.”