Rita rushes madly all the day long,
She’s petrified things will turn out all wrong;
Her two nervous eyes seem made of green rock,
That shift like the pendulum of a clock;
Keep up with the Joneses, she must, she must,
Or all of her dreams will turn to grey dust;
Her sad sour life is a merry-go-round,
And Fear chases her like a hungry hound;
Tragically, she lives at a breakneck pace,
With worrisome wrinkles on her blank face;
Rita’s afraid she just might go crazy,
The truth is that her future’s quite hazy;
She needs to run, run, run, and buy, buy, buy,
But she never stops to ask herself why.