by Carly Berg
"I got one!" he squawked.
He'd caught a redhead. They're special.
I pretended not to care. "Where are we going?"
"Home. Where do you think, oaf?"
I'm an "oaf", whenever he has a redhead.
"Let me go," the carrotite said, unenthusiastically.
Who cares what Orangutana wants.
He'd flog her. Firetonians show marks the best.
"This again," she muttered.
"I hate you," I hissed.
At home, Pumpkinella bent over, waiting. She said, "Why don't you dye your hair red, then?"
"Because I don't want to get flogged. Why don't you dye your hair anything but red?"
"Because," she sniffed, " I'm special."