“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.”