Motel cleaner, motel cleaner, as a dame you
get ticked off, shiv and stick after going wild.
Only recently the thick mud out back claimed two
bodies—your comportment certainly ain’t mild.

You go wild in guise of mother, motel cleaner. . .
have a fit and slay with knife sharp as a dart.
Then folks seek one chic who’d crossed your doorstep. . .
first you spied there, then she died there.
The warning signs are real, motel cleaner:
you’re beyond bold and go post-Method in your part.

You’re not mild in guise of mother, motel cleaner.
Dress don’t fit too well, but in it you cause harm.
One seeker crosses your dark-house doorstep—
what she finds there gives a mind scare:
it’s a form you’ve annealed, mummy-treater.
Away you’ll go to molder in the funny farm.

Motel cleaner, robed belle fleamer.