Annette Fu Frankie A Frankenstein Freaks!

I mark you archetypes:
Clean-cut fame slut
And earnest, humming wakeboard boy,
All American, what puritan joy!
And please and thankee
No hanky-panky
Do praise the Lord
No Betty Ford
‘Cause I’ve seen the seventies
And heaven, please!
It’s getting dark
And Noah’s Ark
Has got to be coming round
‘Cause that roaring sound
In the western sky
Is the fire next time,

But two by two
What shall we do
For entertainment but the New Jack Crew
Of Millennium Zoo.
I don’t know you,
Don’t mean the true
Like “howdy-do”
But I didn’t even watch your shows
Or cop your pose
Back in the
Way before you stuffed your nose
With candied rows
Of escape, and fake-tit hoes.
Brit the trick queen,
Spread labia cuisine
Media hit squad—Channel Nine News muse.
Mousketeer in the rear view
Like your little boy blue
For blue eyes, Timbrel lake the snake
Who pulled some action—
You know he was on the make
When he stripped Miss Jackson,
Rhythm queen facts of life midwife
For 90s rebirth of that gawk effect clan
Net worth lever for Jack-O
What, you want more?
Marlon, Randy, Tito, Jermaine
Whose fame smoothed the pop plane
Of Ronny, Bobby, Whitney and Mike
And what’s not to like
When the smoking crack pipe
At safe remove
On the flat-screen news site,
Right next to…what the beep!
Isn’t that wholesome little Linseed
From the parent trap ’99
Looking like waif weed
In a mugshot from DUI
And parole bye-bye
All like “Judge said ‘Rehab’
I said no! no! no!”
As she walks on by
To mack the knife
Who needs USDA-grade white meat,
(Uh!) some gutter-stained shade of cute
To the playboy shoot
For the boob tube/porntube viral ruse
To shake out dues
From pimple-faced rubes
Who want to view ”Paris” nude
Taking dick to the hilt
Then crying over spilt filth
Pleading fifth of guilt
To four more of—game went tilt
When boyfriend hit send
And first amendment
In all its resplendent
Pattern of mercury
Traced the frenzy
Bearing débutante savant,
The craven fame degree
Recognized from sea to blinging sea.
Though ”’she”’ don’t need that Get Money
She was penthouse born downtown
Unlike C Boy Brown,
Built up clean cut for urban crown
Till girlfriend of superstar renown
Showed up in photos properly smacked down
And we turned pitchfork horde
But not in sympathy for poor
Young cherie amour; not re: Anna.
Manna, hon’, tenor
(Once Soprano; got herself a gun
When Annie took the shot)
It’s like this and-ah
It’s like that and-ah
So how long you got to go before the crack and-ah?
It ain’t hate to state that jailbait
Ain’t got long to wait
Before they’re fish
For press delish
And public wish
For baby seal treat
And scandal sweet
For holier than thousands
Meaning us, the crowd, since
Indignation gets us sprung
We fiend to rub our tongue
Over fresh baked bodies of the young
With our puritan sheep skins
Thrown crooked over wolf whims
For the younger the better
Offer fame, then we sweat her
Like “you’re going to be our princess
Don’t worry. We love you best.”
But we creep game
To catch her baby body undressed
Grotesque seed from repressed, healthier need
So we do our shift at baby celeb egg breed
Hatch them under spotlights
Promethean bolt that jolts life
Into temples of packed studio nights
Where we gather bodies to try out parts
Practicing our own dark arts
Making monsters larger than life form,
Shocked when we can’t scale them to norm
So we chase them to the mill
And Burn! Baby! Burn! for one last thrill
Or we let them shuffle to the north pole
Assuming they’ll perish in the cold
But we’re OK. We’ve got the mold
And the next idol is already lined up to be sold,
To flirt, to make eyes, to be my prize;
Join my pimped paradise, my player pantomime
Be mine, be my young (baby, baby!) frankenstein.