The word from Wawa far has come
From obese blondes and redheads dumb
No more they'll ride the Kool Aid Train
Conducted by that asshole, Shane.

They will not flirt or wink or smile
When he their souls tries to beguile
They will not cut him any slack
Or offer him their knees or back.

They've had enough, those Wawa women,
Their hearts are full their heads are swimming.
Comparing notes, they've found that he
Is just a punk, a wanna-be.

He has no strength in either arm,
He has no insight, grace, or charm,
His flirting's flat and cheap and shallow
In fetid lust his mind does wallow.

No Wawa girl, with half a brain
Will ever smile again at Shane.
His race is run, his hopes are sick,
They've pegged him for a hopeless prick.

And so--at least until tomorra--
Report the wenches all of Wawa.

Gordon Beefsteak Groscoeur
Poet Laureate of Wawa and Gasoline Pump Expert Extraordinaire