Bill Gates & Martha Stewart
B.G. to M.S.:
Sweet Martha, won’t you be my newest MS,
Melinda grates, she causes “Microsoft,”
While you love hardware, you long to be boffed,
With my search engine, you are just a whiz.
When spring has sprung, and all the grass has riz,
And you’re downloading me up in your loft,
I’ll long to be with you, both long and oft,
You truly will monopolize my biz.
I’ll monitor your trial, Martha sweet,
My love for you no judges can delete,
And even if they toss you in the slam,
And money’s gone, I’ll be your pillow sham,
We’ll get conjugal visits; I’ve got pull,
And, when I come, my hard drive will be full :-)
M.S. to B.G.:
My Billy dear, I wish that we had met
Before I tried to sell my ImClone shares,
Your Window treatments would be done upstairs,
And with your bucks, we’d be together yet.
For billions buys most all things, you can bet,
But not my love; my spreadsheets come in pairs
Made just for us, not stock-market affairs.
(Besides, I know you’ll never be in debt.)
But if my craftiness is no avail,
And I crash in some gauche and tacky jail,
In knowing how you hate that wife of yours,
I’ll help you boot her mainframe out the doors.
With all my skills with scraps and paints and paste,
I’ll make a gift for her, with toxic waste :-)
Pat Robertson & Shirley MacLaine, et al.
P.R. to S.M.:
Shirley is your name right now, I know,
But Joan of Arc and Cleopatra work,
And when you are an Asian or a Turk,
And personalities together flow,
My loving nature really starts to grow.
Ten girls at once, I’d really go berserk,
But it’s not really sin, it’s just a quirk,
You’re merely one, though many of you glow.
You are my comfort, sent by our dear Lord
(He favors me for carrying his sword),
I know that all your souls are sweetly blessed,
And rest my head on some girl’s Holy breast,
Yet sometimes, bad thoughts creep, as bad thoughts can:
I’d end in Hell if once you were a man.
S.M. to P.R.:
I hope, Pat, you weren’t once King Solomon,
For never once was I mere harem queen,
But still you are the best I’ve ever seen;
I’ve known a lot of men, too, one-on-one.
I’ll channel you, you big son-of-a-gun,
To feel out just exactly who you’ve been,
Maybe Torquemada — you’re so clean,
And torture all my souls — but oh! What fun!
I know you long for heaven when you die,
But fear you’re fornicating, and you’ll fry,
But, I’ve been all around the worldly block,
And even met sweet Jesus with his flock—
You get more lives to be forgiven in,
So I say, lets make this life one of sin.
Michael Eisner & Minnie Mouse
M.M. to M.E.:
That Steamboat Willie has me really steamed,
I know just how he got that “Willie” name,
Although the way he uses it is lame,
And every time we do it I feel reamed.
So now he’s Mickey. Cute; who would have dreamed
That such a goody two-shoes could gain fame
By dancing, mincing, squeaking, frame by frame.
The little rat! He’d kiss where old Walt deemed.
I know he’s built a kingdom with his tricks
And he’s protected by all kinds of pricks,
But you, dear Michael, you’re in charge right now;
Have Terminix erase that sacred cow,
And once again, release me from my cel;
We’ll send that Mickey vermin straight to Hell!
M.E. to M.M.:
Oh, my Minnie, oh, my little joy,
Run up my leg, my dearest little shrew!
I may have boned Rog Rabbit’s wife, but Eeew!
She soon became another spin-off toy.
But you’re like Helen, beauty queen of Troy.
You’ll launch a thousand clips, and money, too!
We’ll let Mick’s contract lapse, we won’t renew
Despite complaints of Disney Goofs, like Roy.
You’re more compelling, you have cuter lips,
And I’ll have animators implant hips,
You’re so sublime, Mick’s cheesy bits just bore,
His rodent ass is toast, we’ll fuck him sure.
I’ll draft trained cats, then pet your Mousy Tits
As frozen Walter’s mouse gets chewed to bits!
Stephen King & Condoleezza Rice
S.K. to C.R.:
Sweet Condi, though you scowl, you’re really nice,
You’ve introduced me to your White House friends,
The folks on whom security depends;
They run about like roaches, or like lice.
An undisclosed location will suffice,
Your noun will turn to verbs as mine distends;
Your moaning to the press will have no ends—
Our passion isn’t just a plot device.
Those folks you hang with, though, inspire tales;
There’s Cheney, with the heart that never fails,
And Ashcroft, losing votes to one who died,
And Powell, who has a murky mush inside.
But when you scream, my inspiration soars,
You are my muse, the rest are merely whores.
C.R. to S.K.:
The Evil Axis scares me, Steve, but you?
I know your grisly plots are merely tales
Made up for popularity and sales,
And none of them are really very true.
No matter what the C.I.A. might view,
My lust for shrieks and biting never quails,
We won’t be caught, those agents think like snails,
They’ll blame a terrorist for all we do.
Although I whisper things in Bush’s ear,
He’s nothing to me, I assure you, dear.
And if I seem to have a Roving eye,
It’s just this horrid job, my sweetie pie.
Come poke inside my chamber, none will see,
Sneak in, and scare the juices out of me.