“This is my home.”
Charlie ‘Bird’ Parker, whilst injecting heroin.

Dr Harry’s gone sexy. Now it’s celebs
Told how to de-worm, not just some pleb
In a vinyl-filled home with a disordered pooch:
We now need a soap star to pick up the poop.

Celebs are like plumbers, or traders, or vets:
Everyday workers who, for some reason, get
Their heads onto TV – attention that’s fleeting,
Like the loony who speaks at every staff meeting.

Dirty’s the job, but there’s no need to do it –
Madonna’s a celeb, if only she knew it!
Too often, however, despite that they oughtn’t,
Celebs think they’re artists – far more important.

The outrage! The hunger! Like lions hunt fawn,
Celebs stalk respect from the moment they’re born,
Want Art’s greater glory in pre-packaged form:
Look profound, think nonsense; talk Shakespeare, act porn.

Ban make-up; go mystic; save species protected;
Turn Buddhist; eat sea-weed; write books; get elected;
Win Oscars; refuse ’em: there’s naught they won’t be
So they’re not just celebs for celebrity.

But an artist wants Art, not just the name –
Like Charlie ‘Bird’ Parker, fit in his vein,
Speaking a truth that’s the artist’s alone:
“This,” he said, showing: “this is my home.”