[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.