Britney, our national nighthawk, dulcet
Songbird of the dark: your melodies pump
On Red Bull wings, video body wet
With oil, while in backs of bars, we dry hump.
Sometimes we recall your salad days: your
Pigtails, promise rings, sports bras. E-mail my
Heart, you warbled in twang on your mall tour,
In fact innocent, not knowing, that by
And by, you would dance down roads of madness,
In a diamond jumpsuit, with snakes, slaves, strange
Toxic lovers, your face full of sadness.
You shaved your head, swung umbrellas, deranged.
Confess: your loneliness was killing you,
Our little bird with the pink dice tattoo.
Up goes a collective national sigh:
Oh Kim, must we see your face everywhere?
We wait for sweet release, our last goodbye,
We tire of your drama, your lips, your hair,
Your hips, your eyes– they repeat on newsstands
As if reflected in funhouse mirrors.
Your makeup Van Gogh-thick, your wedding band
Ring Pop-big, a Pigpen-swirl of rumors
Surrounds you. An American Marie
Antoinette for these recessionary
Times, beware! Ryan says, Let them watch E!
But a Reign of Terror approaches thee—
Off with her head, cable customers vote,
Making guillotines out of their remotes.
I swoon for Laguna Beach, paradise
Found: Pacific vistas, infinity
Pools, caramelized highlights so precise
Hairstylists must be part divinity.
Kristin Cavallari is its Venus,
Her hoarse laugh and monotone inflections
Somehow bewitching to ev’ry penis:
She surfs the sea; they all get erections.
High school bitch priestess wielding her power,
Ruling her heaven with a shearling boot,
Her stretch palanquin rented by the hour—
The limo, her throne, her prince, always cute.
Then graduating, she moves to L.A.,
Where The Hills will take her power away.