Paula Deen and the Throne

There she is again, that magnificent
southern whore. She has a million
teeth, each a pearly siren
which beckons sailors, telling them
to come closer and still closer until
they crash against her lipid shoals.

She repels all invaders; on those
who've tried to storm her castle
and cast her from her throne,
she poured molten butter. Those
who survived she tortured in vats
of boiling oils-- palm, coconut, vegetable.
This was similar to how she conquered:
first, an assault inside her foes' bodies;
second, a pan sear to seal in the juices.

She wanders the hallways of her palace,
talking wistfully to herself
in an uncharacteristically cheerful drawl.
Perhaps she remembers not being cruel
and reminisces on those times, but her acts
show she feels no remorse for changing.

She's a rabid hellhound in imperial garb.
She's a heartless monster with butter in her chest.
She's Paula Deen.