Chocolate for Doherty

[An imagined note of support from a 14-year old girl to the troubled Babyshambles front man Pete Doherty.]

Dear Pete, I saw you on the evening news
What have you been taking now?
You need to knock this thing on the head
And I think I know the way how.

Instead of caning that smack and crack
And getting yourself in a state
Fix on a king-size Snickers Bar
Or crumble it up with a Flake.

Chocolate is cheaper and cooler than drugs
It won't make you act like a prick
And if the police stop and search you again
There's no law against possessing a Twix.

I'm sending a Crunchie by registered post
I hope that it sweetens your tooth.
There's also a Kit-Kat you might want to share
With the other three blokes in your group.

I hope that you'll follow my chocolate advice
I really don't want you to die.
Start the night with a Fruit and Nut Dairy Milk
Not a puke-stained heroin high.

So next time I notice your name in the papers
I'll know that there's no need to fret.
Perhaps you'll have stolen a Cadbury's Creme Egg
But you'll make a good album yet.

Forward to Bedlam

[Reflecting on the darker side of James Blunt 's meteoric rise to fame from a future perspective.]

Looking back it seems so obvious
As all the signs were there.
Sat there stripping on a glacier
With long dark greasy hair.

Singing love songs like 'You're Beautiful'
To some elusive girl.
When deep down all he sought to do
Was subjugate the world.

Well we all bought Back to Bedlam
Thinking what a fresh new voice.
Never realising this purchase
Would be our last through choice.

As his tunes became ubiquitous
A Blunt in every home.
The feeling grew much stronger
That our minds were not our own.

Seems he learned his trade in Kosovo
In scenes of disarray.
And decided on returning
There must be a better way.

So he started making music
With subliminal undertones
Designed to raise a loyal army
To appoint him to their throne.

When several singer-songwriters
Were gunned down in the street.
His gradual global brainwashing
Was finally complete.

Now he has the minds of millions
All humming to his whine.
Forced to do his evil bidding
Until the end of time.

....

Hendrix in London

[What if Jimi Hendrix arrived in England in April 2006 rather than September 1966? Written to the tune of Purple Haze]

Touched down at Heathrow about half-past eight.
White collar man wouldn't let me through the gate.
Next thing I know two cats are searching me.
Like I was a voodoo threat to national security.

Took a ride to some hip producer's home.
Making sure to avoid the congestion charge zone.
I asked the guy, would he like to hear me play?
He said no point, it's all done on computers these days.

Within a week I started getting press attention.
Even Heat magazine gave me a small mention.
Said I was stepping out with some chick from a soap.
But they didn't give our long term prospects too much hope.

Got a gig tonight in Camden Town
With a band thrown together by some A&R clown.
Sharing the stage with a bunch of washed-up junkies.
And I'm second on the bill to the Arctic Monkeys.

The Bee

[This bee-inspired poem/song recently turned up at a jumble sale in Crawley, allegedly written by Robert Smith of The Cure*]

Today I spent an hour or three
Staring at a picture of a bee
It made me feel so happy inside.
Yellow black and buzzy
Making lots of honey
With no need to worry or hide.

I'd like to spend my hours
Rooting around in pretty flowers
Then flying home to service my queen.
Oh what a mighty buzz
Living in a healthy hive of love
A cog in one big busy bee machine.

Though I'm sure bees have their problems
Just like every living thing
Such as dying prematurely
When they use their only sting.
The dark threat of fumigation
And horrific nectar costs
Or bearing all the blame and shame
Of trouble caused by wasps.

What I think I'm trying to say
Is if I leave this heartless world today
I'm willing to return in bee form.
Collecting lots of pollen
From a field in Holland
And swearing my allegiance to the swarm.

Can't you see it's killing me?
I'm droning for the colony
I just want to be
A bee...

[*obviously it didn't really]

Musings on Mariah

[A batch of sonnets dedicated to the demanding diva otherwise known as Mimi.]

Mariah Carey,
To what shall I compare thee?
Perhaps a restaurant in the swanky park of town?
Or liquid nitrogen poured inside a clown?
A creamy stain upon a rented wedding gown?

Mariah Carey,
Your ambition doesn't scare me.
You deserve to spin forever like a top.
Can you get me some bananas from the shop?
Plus a paper and a can of diet pop.

Mariah Carey,
Are your cupboards nice and airy?
Does your toilet flush itself when you clap twice?
While a midget keeps your kitchen clear of mice
And a talking mirror offers health advice?

Mariah Carey,
With your voice like a canary
Or a budgie with ideas above its perch.
Your face as cold and uninviting as a church
May the gods of Diva Hell not spare the birch.

The Wickedness of Westlife

[Supposing that behind that clean-cut image, the Irish crooners aren't such nice boys after all.]

Louis Walsh frowned
As his boys tossed around
The head of Sienna Miller.
He sighed: "Guys, I know
You don't dig Boho
But that wasn't a reason to kill her.

Now we'll all face
A public disgrace
From the pigs of Primrose Hill
These murder sprees
Have really got to cease -
Can't you do something else for a thrill?"

"Louis," they said,
While skinning the head
"It's not just a bit of fun.
Sharon Osbourne says we must
Satisfy her bloodlust
Before we score another number one.

She has woken from the deep,
Without her beauty sleep
And needs to look her Osbourne best.
Nobody must know
That beneath her reddish glow
She's a surgically-enhanced Rose West.

So give the gal a chance,
Come join us and dance
With the Devil in the pale moonlight.
Help us disembowel
The nasty Simon Cowell
And devour him with some Chicken Tonight."

The Royal Visit

[Imagining what might happen if Madonna Queen of Pop popped round for the afternoon.]


A rich old lady came to tea
Her face was full of apathy
I asked her if she fancied me
But she was barely listening.
It seems her husband lets her down
He doesn't dig her disco sound.
He makes her pay for every round
While his career is fizzling.

She said so sorry to be rude
But she could not abide our food.
I asked to see her in the nude
But I don't think she heard me.
She showed me photos of her daughter
While my dad went out and bought her
Several crates of special water
She said ours was dirty.

Her hands were like old withered claws
No wonder she fell off her horse
I told her she should get divorced
But she just plain ignored me.
She said that she would love to stay
But she had business in L.A.
She'd change her outfit on the way
To something chic but whorey.

As she left she kissed my nose
She said I was an English Rose
I offered to take off my clothes
But she was on the porch now
She left behind her walking stick
Her attitude got on my wick
I hope our muffins made her sick
On Sting and Gwyneth Paltrow.


tags: madonna pop music kabbalah gwyneth poems

Kelly said to Carrie

[A purely hypothetical face-off between Kelly Clarkson and Carrie Underwood, the lovely winners of American Idol seasons 1 and 4.]





"Excuse me, is anyone sat here?" asked Kelly.
Laughed Carrie, "well no-one but you."
"There's a yogurt in my pocket I'm dying to share.
So I sure hope that you like tofu."

"I hope it's not poisoned," said Carrie unsurely,
And emptied a spoon down her throat.
"Of course not," grinned Clarkson and stood up to leave.
"But it's packed to the brim with peyote."

And so Carrie wandered through mystical plains
With Bo Bice as her spirit guide.
Visions of vegetables taunted her, humming
The songs of Martina McBride.

She woke with a start upon Checotah Bridge
Her journey had come to an end
Now only one thing remained on her mind
Find Kelly and wreak sweet revenge...


[To be continued]

The haunting Katie Melua

[Inspired by the ubiquity of the enchanting singer-songstress Katie Melua.]



The first time Katie appeared to me,
She was old and draped in blue.
"My child," she croaked, "I have walked this Earth
Since 1892.
Can you lift the curse that forbids my rest
For my time long ago passed me by?"
"Don't think so," I said, and she nodded her head.
"Oh well, it was worth a try."

Three years disappeared and to tell you the truth,
I never once gave her a thought.
'Til a song on TV in a sofa sale ad made me realise
That she had been bought.
But could I have hindered this desolate fate
If only I'd purchased her CD?
"Not sure," I decided, when all in a flash
She was shimmering in front of me.

"Melua why I was just thinking of you,"
I offered unconvincingly.
Her youth now restored, she was handsome and taut
With hair that shone gloriously.
"Your mistake," she intoned, "could have cost me my life
But instead it worked out rather well.
I am younger and richer than ever before
And have shaken that strange musty smell."

"Good for you," I replied as sincere as I could
Before making a dash for the door.
But Katie was quick and with one mighty kick
Sent me crashing down onto the floor.
"My second CD is much better," she said,
"It's laidback and tuneful and clever."
"Don't give me that, you still work with Mike Batt,"
I screamed as she skinned me for leather.