Visions of Lionel Richie
Holding a gun to my head.
Snarling: "I've heard your records, bub,
And believe me, you're best off dead.
You've ruined too many pop classics
By some of my dearest friends.
If life is a rollercoaster, toots,
This is where your ride ends."
"Please Mr Richie," I whimper,
"How can you be so unfeeling?
I've worshipped you since you couldn't slow down,
I gasped as you danced on the ceiling.
I cried at the Hello video -
The blind girl who won your heart.
And somehow made a perfect bust of your face,
A veritable miracle of art."
"That was the old me," snaps Lionel.
"As soft as my white nylon suit.
Now I'm a 21st Century guy,
A bitter moustachioed brute.
Haven't you seen my daughter Nicole?
She's selfish and skinny and wild.
She's enough to drive the sanest man mad.
Of course, she's not really my child..."
It's then that the vision begins to fade,
And Lionel turns into thin air.
I pray to the Lord to deliver his soul,
End once and for all his despair.
But as for his ominous warning
To leave his back catalogue alone.
I don't have much choice with my limited voice
And complete lack of songs of my own.