The Eyes of Aguilera

[Inspired by a story from Popbitch about Christina Aguilera forbidding eye contact from journalists during interviews]

Of all American songstresses
They say there is none fairer
Than the little dame with the massive voice
Named Christina Aguilera.
So imagine my delight
When I was offered the chance to grill her
About any subject of my choice
Provided I brought a mirror.

I pondered on this odd request
As they led me to her room
Through corridors of lifelike statues
Bathed in eerie gloom.
Her assistant grabbed my arm
As we approached Christina's door
And said: "Now listen carefully,
There is a rule you can't ignore:

Don't look into Christina's eyes
If you want to make it home;
She's a modern day Medusa
And she'll turn you into stone.
There's nary a man or woman alive
That she's not prepared to freeze,
From record company executives
To Grammy nominees."

And peering through the keyhole
I could see the myth was true;
Her hair was made of writhing snakes
Her face a steely blue.
I wished I'd brought a sickle
To lop off her evil head
But decided not to take the risk
And went to meet Pink instead.

tags: christina aguilera pink grammys medusa mythology poems

Justin's SexyBreakfast

[Intrigued by Justin Timberlake's imminent return with his sexy new single SexyBack and equally sexy new album FutureSex/LoveSounds, this poem guesses the kind of lyrics we'll be hearing from the sexed-up superstar]

Girl you're like my coffee,
So hot and strong and sweet
I'm gonna lay you down
A special morning treat.
Don't need no milk
'Cause you got cream enough for two.
Love's on the menu
And I'm hungry babe for you.

Gonna crack your egg and test
Your firmness with a poke.
Pick up my soldier girl
And dip it in your yolk.
I dedicate this toast
To our forever lovin'.
You can eat my sausage
If you let me munch your muffin.

'Cause it's Justin's Sexy Breakfast
It's a feast of funk supreme.
And you can't leave the table girl
Until your plate is clean.
Said it's Justin's Sexy Breakfast
Tastes so good it must be wrong.
Now spread your legs like butter
I'm gonna have you naked by the end of this scone...



..

Sweet Dinner Lady of Mine

[Tired of groupies and drugs, Guns n' Roses frontman Axl Rose finds true love and a square meal in a school canteen]

"Axl," she said
As she rolled off the bed,
"Last night was like seventh heaven.
But I've got to go
Because as well you know
I'm due into work by eleven."
I gave her a kiss
This apron-clad miss
And dug out some bus fare to lend her.
Then bid my farewell
To the cooking fat smell
Of my sweet dinner lady called Brenda.

She's totally cool
As she glides through the school
To start heating up the spaghetti.
But if Jamie Oliver
Tries to come onto her
His tongue will meet my machete.
And just could it be
That she's thinking of me
As she tosses some fruit in the blender?
She's surprisingly nifty
For a woman of fifty
My sweet dinner lady called Brenda.

Although I miss Slash
And going out on the lash
I've cashed in my rock 'n' roll dreams.
You really can't beat
Something tasty to eat
Even when it's just fried egg and beans.
I ate my destruction
And now every luncheon
Has vegetables on the agenda.
Regained my allure
And I owe it to her:
My sweet dinner lady called Brenda.

Anything But Keane

[In which heiress with the leastess Paris Hilton is punished severely for her unspeakable crimes against humanity]

And so Paris Hilton was sent to the chair
Bemoaning the fact she had nothing to wear.
The guards had shaved off all her lovely blonde hair
But worse was the cruel fate awaiting her there.

Instead of employing electrical means
To fry this annoying society queen,
They'd torture her with introspective paeans
The music began and she started to scream:

"Please, no, anything but Keane!
I'd rather be stuck in a threshing machine!
I want to be back in my big limousine.
Giving some sleazy guy peaches and cream.

Their songs are so dismal and dreary and drab;
The sweaty lead singer resembles a crab.
They're the audio equivalent of picking a scab;
Can't you just give me a quick lethal jab?"

The CD ran through a selection of tunes
As three hooded figures walked into the room.
And slowly removed their mysterious costumes,
Causing poor Paris to shriek like a loon:

"Please, no, anyone but Keane!
This is like some sort of horrible dream!
I realise now I've been selfish and mean
But promise in future I'll be less obscene!"

Such passionate remorse could not be ignored
By the fair-minded folk on the prison board.
So Paris was spared Keane's final encore
And chopped into bits with a samurai sword.