I Wish I Was Various Things

[A poem in which folk-pop sensation Sandi Thom contemplates being a proper punk rocker and some other things too]

I wish I was a punk rocker,
With safety pins through my nose.
A pink mohican on my head
And rubber bondage clothes.
I'd earn the wrath of Teddy Boys
As I shopped along the Kings Road.
Then pogo to the 100 Club.
To gob on The Ramones.

I wish I was a piece of cheese,
Just waiting in a trap.
For a mouse to come and nibble me,
So I could spring and break its back.
I'd watch with morbid interest
As it was eaten by the cat.
Then scream when I was pilfered by
A particularly ravenous rat.

Singing: won't you come and ride with us,
In a minibus with Phill Jupitus?
To a time when people turned swastikas
Into handy garden ploughs.
My rose-tinted version of history
Has brought such great success to me.
And thanks to my basement webcasts,
I don't even need to leave the house.

I wish I was a Victorian girl,
A writer like Emily Brontë.
Curled up coughing myself to death
With my beloved toy Dave the Monkey.
I'd curse my sisters, Charlotte and Anne,
For their feeble attempts to revive me.
Then realise the flowers in my hair
Were nothing but poison ivy.

Paris the Korea Girl

[In which Paris Hilton, glued back together and reanimated after her previous adventure, makes herself useful for once]

So I'm sharing a baked potato
With a North Korean dictator.
Sent by the CIA to convey
Top secret security data.
When they told me to meet with Kim,
I pictured a lady tall and thin.
Instead here I am with a toad-like man:
All glasses and oily skin.

"I know why you're here, Miss Hilton,"
He smiles as he shoots some children.
"You're trying to ban the nuclear program
I'm oh-so-carefully building.
But you and your friend Nicole Richie
Are nothing but slutty and bitchy.
You carry no weight in this communist state
And your perfume is making me itchy."

"Now come along Mr Jong-il,"
I laugh and knock back a strong pill.
"If my elegant scent won't make you relent,
Then maybe my latest song will."
But as I get up and gyrate,
My chihuahua begins to vibrate.
Then jumps on Kim's lap and blows him to crap,
Leaving just a foul head on a plate.

The Classic Sting

[To celebrate the release of Sting's new classical opus Songs From The Labyrinth, Mick Jagger recounts a twisted tale of musical corruption.]

Sting and Paul McCartney came knocking on my door.
They said we've got an offer, Mick, you simply can't ignore.
We're going to stage a concert, under guise of charity.
Then run off with the profits and a huge appearance fee.

This sounded like a top idea; I told them count me in.
I'd sing a few crowd-pleasers and then leave the rest to Sting.
The tickets sold like hot cakes at surprisingly high prices.
McCartney said we'll be so rich, we'll need to find new vices.

The concert proved a great success, and not a soul surmised
That this gang of ageing rockers were taking them for a ride.
We jammed a final encore, then slipped away backstage
To drink champagne and share our massive, ill-begotten wage.

Sting came in with a large brown bag and said "I've got the loot."
But our faces dropped as he emptied it, and realised we'd been duped.
Instead of a pile of money, or even a big gold bar,
Out fell an old wooden instrument, with strings like a guitar.

"Here's your lute," Sting sniggered. "You've both been rather greedy.
All cash has gone to Africa to help the poor and needy.
I knew you wouldn't play for free, so devised a cunning scheme.
But thanks for coming anyway, you made a marvellous team."

I didn't know whether to laugh or cry, McCartney seemed the same.
Tricked by a Tantric tosser with a silly one-word name.
We needed a witty comeback to prove we could take a joke.
So buried him alive with a hornet hive and sold his wife for coke.