When your Taggs, and your Twits, they all surround you,
And you wish that your Willard had a plan,
And your Fehrnstroms, and your Roves, they start to confound you,
Won't you come see me, Queen Ann?
Won't you come see me, Queen Ann?
And when the ladies on The View, they start to inspect you,
And your Limbaughs, and your Drudges, make their demands,
And you scream, "This is hard!" because you know they don't respect you,
Won't you come see me, Queen Ann?
Oh, won't you come see me, Queen Ann?
And when all your dancing horses are prancing backward,
And you dream of mushroom clouds over Iran,
And all your Cadillacs are elevating skyward,
Won't you come see me, Queen Ann?
Won't you come see me, Queen Ann?
So the next time you're in the pool with Mister Leder,
And you hear the Cayman Islands calling your name,
And forty-seven percent of the people are coming to get you,
Won't you come see me, Queen Ayn?
Yes, won't you come see me, Queen Ayn?
Seriously, Ann.
I want you to come see me.
I hear you're a Rominatrix.
* * *
With apologies to Bob Dylan.
* * *