Women, little more than groupies,
Who hang around megastars,
Battening off them like vampires,
Sue them for alimony,
When the affairs are over,
Sell their exclusives to the Sunday gutter press
For five figure sums,
And publicly denounce their former lovers
As drug addicts, tightwads and hypocrites
While trying to kid the public
That they themselves have some hidden talent
Other than a natural flair
For living off infinitely more gifted people than themselves,
And an ability to lie convincingly.
Short, fat directors
Of grossly overrated so-called films of suspense and thrillers
Whose plots are extremely predictable and scripts appalling,
Who speak in slow, deliberate tones
And try to project a false aura of mysticism
About everything they say and do.
Singer song writers
Who are so blatantly phony they turn my stomach,
Who bring out three albums in a row without proper titles,
Who write songs which are so absurdly profound
That nobody (least of all themselves) can understand them,
Who denounce nationalism, white nationalism of course,
And at the same time openly praise in song
Black South African communist agitators.
Learned professors who write books
On astronomy and related subjects
Aimed specifically at the intelligent layman,
Beginning every other chapter with a quote from Alice In Wonderland,
Who are always so benign and altruistic,
Even to the extent of praising
The achievements of the socialist cabal
As a boon to mankind,
And who are so politically na´ve;
That they talk about racism and sexism
As though they were real issues.
Tall, blonde, unfunny comediennes
Who cohabit with heavy-drinking Caledonian funny men,
Who give birth out of wedlock,
Have tantrums in public
And could eat asparagus sideways.
People who talk too much too fast all the time.
People who pause for a full minute
Before answering the simplest questions
With three paragraphs of hyperbole, metaphors,
Ifs, ands, ors and buts.
People who are shallow.
People who are transparent.
People who are so obviously putting it on.
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