Untitled Starlet #4

“I wanna be a green-eyed popsmith

Loved by a twenty-first century fox,

Queue as ammunition for urban myth –

Poets never wanted to stop the clocks,”

Said the miraculously fabricated blonde,

Aligning the scan of her garter belt;

With the spartan regimen of a dedicated bard,

She melds exclusively with bonafides.

Authors’ tweeds and philistine Hollywoods

Write cochlear rhythms and reels of rhyme

For mere craftsmen, who’ve sung their songs a million times.

Panting for screen tests, frenzied by Mad Ave. hype,

Centrefolds flock the lobby – tell Godot I’ll get back to ‘im

– For a new treatment cut with a stylish Valium,

Hoping they’ve gotta pair to script a million shorts.

Tell me when his olifactory compass finds north.

“Dance like an organ grinder’s monkey,

You whiskey-soaked troubadour.

Crawl the King’s Fucking Road Darling,

Nobody wears hearts on their sleeves any more.”