Once not so long ago an ol' solon, chip off the burning bush, created a case before the dumbling clowns of a biggish country. His aging was sorely evident and became a largish talked about point so the wisher scurried to the frozen north to pull out a plum ~ a hot young chick who talked like a redneck and told lies same-ish as those told by the big house drunk.
In wilding speak, she professed to be for the misses of the world but she missed the mark and in due time, the chips were down and the jig was up.
Femmes murmured, 'She doesn't speak for me. I hate hockey.' 'She doesn't speak for me, I have two kids.' 'She doesn't speak for me ~ I've come too far to lose.' 'Aunt Sally fought too hard for me to vote, to be able to buy land and to kick a crooked man under the bus.' 'If she and the old dude gain the throne, witch burning days'll come again.'
Lo! The femmes saw the light, took back their country and cooked up one fine plum pie.