Karen's tongue

Oh, Karen, queen of the "speak to the manager," With a furrowed brow and a voice like a danger. Her hair is a helmet, her eyes full of fire, Ready to unleash a verbal pyre. She's armed with a coupon, a phone in her hand, Demanding a refund, a rule she can't stand. The slightest infraction, a slight to her pride, Will send her on a rampage, with nowhere to hide. She'll question the barista, the cashier, the clerk, Their knowledge, their service, their every remark. "I want to see the manager," she'll loudly proclaim, With a righteous indignation, a burning shame. But beneath the facade, a heart full of fear, Of being ignored, of not being held dear. A longing for power, a need to control, A desperate attempt to reclaim her soul. So next time you encounter a Karen in the wild, Remember her struggles, her anger, her child. With patience and kindness, a gentle approach, You might just disarm her, and offer her a coach.