Justin Bieber

A squeaky voice, a stupid face, a true pain in the butt,

An ego driven teen idol with a lesbian’s haircut.

Of course it’s Justin Bieber, America’s teen choice.

Snapping hymens worldwide with his shaky breaking voice.

Bieber fever swept the globe, like an evil Disney virus,

Worse than Jonas Brothers HIV, or e coli  Miley Cyrus.

We see him at awards shows, false gratitude, faux thanking,

Adolescents shouldn’t be upon on stage, they should be in their bedrooms wanking.

His mother trained him in the womb, to see what he’d be worth,

She signed a major record deal then shat out after birth.

If Bieber wants to be a slave, China has sweatshops,

We can get him there quite swiftly, Before you say Mmmmbop.

To take him down a peg or two, lets Punk him Ashton Kutcher,

He could burst in on the Bieber whilst she’s Scissoring Pat Butcher.

But if he rather be notorious, one ways tried and tested,

He can claim to be the final kid Michael Jackson ever molested.

But teen stars soon go off the rails, and in their tracks their stopped.

Destined to be a has been - before his balls have even dropped.

A Gypsy Royal Wedding

Prince William must be nervous, as the Big Day’s drawing near,

But details of the Royal Wedding still remain unclear.

They’re breaking with tradition, old protocols they’ll smash,

So they’ve called in some recruitment to help them with their bash.

It’s just a little change in style, how will the public judge it?

They’ve got the gypsy brides onboard and gave them a massive budget.

The Queen is not so happy, she’s simply not a fan,

Prince Philip tells her shut her face and clean their caravan.

To afford such luxuries some things must be sold,

The crown jewels in an envelope and off to Cash My Gold.

Kate’s dress will be horrendous, an offense on the eye,

More like Lady Gaga, less like Lady Di.

The bridesmaids are outrageous, their whole style is abysmal

Like Katie Price has just puked up a can of Pepto Bismal.

And those dresses are heavy, up to 15 stone they weigh,

Like piggy backing Vanessa Feltz on your wedding day.

Williams entrance will be grand, a plan that cannot falter,

He’s saddling Camilla and will ride her to the altar.

Prince Charles aint so happy, disapproval he can’t hide,

Will’s never asked permission before he pimped his ride.

Prince Harry as the best man, he’ll make us all smile,

He’ll simply yell ‘heil Hitler’ and goose step down the aisle.

Before they sign the register, they have to make a switch,

Will’s changed his facebook status from ‘engaged’ to’ just now hitched’.

The reception just as you’d expect will be a Royal piss up,

The couples waltz their first dance to the tune of Smack My Bitch Up.

The Queen decked out in fake tan, she thinks the look is mint,

Her picture on the £10 note will get an orange tint.

With a wedding so outrageous the honeymoon wont be so tacky,

A fortnites all inclusive at a bar in Falaraki

But the Royals have one tiny thing that beats the gypsy brides,

Something Gyspies cannot do or possibly provide,

If they miss this wedding detail, the nation goes berserk

For Royals unlike Gypsies, we get the day off work.

The Only Way is Essex

The Only Way is Essex, the only way to what?

To spout out constant drivel and not wear an awful lot?                     

Some say the whole show is staged, that’s easy to appeal,

Fake boobs, fake tan, fake eyelashes, what part of it aint real??

A group of friends from Essexs, proudly made In Dagenham,

And when one girl is out of sight the others sit round Slaggin’ em.

Meet Essexs biggest cowbags, Sam, Amy and Lucy,

Who love a bitching session whilst gluing rhinestones round their pussy’s.

This new form of body art is christened the Vajazzle,

Like a nasty yeast infection but with some added dazzle.

Prit sticking glitter round your bits, that’s what makes you famous,

One’s even stapled gunned a feather boa round her anus.

With Vajazzled privates, their the pride of Billeracy,

I’ve seen a sequined cunt before -  Ann Widdecombe on Strictly.

To compliment these silly tarts, these bargain bucket divas,

They’ve found some eligible men (or Perma-tanned amoebas.)

The lads are London blokey, all cockney, Arsenal ,Spurs,

Floating around the woman like a rapey Olly Murrs.

It’s just a stab at a British Hills, proof tv’s got odder,

Watching sleazy geezers chase round page 3 fodder.

But if a boys get lucky, and pulls the looker of the pack,

It’ll be just like going down on a fishy Art Attack.

And so the show must always end with 2 girls proper shouting.

Lets cheers the death of dignity, voiced by Denise Van Outen.

Cheryl Cole

She’s the nations Geordie Princess, the brightest gem we have.

But is she proper glamour or a Gucci wearing chav?

She glows on prime time telly, her former roots she snubs,

But without her team of stylists she’s basically N-Dubz.

Once a fifth of Girls Aloud, she’s now a solo Queen,

She’d rather have Malaria than an hour with Nadine.                     

But last year was a tough one, her husband got caught sexting,

Bt If u marry a love rat footballer, what are you expecting?

 texting naughty pictures, the lowest of the low.

The divorce much like his phone contract became Pay As You Go.

And it’s through this tabloid scandal that Ashley became Wife-less,

Leaving our lovely Cheryl feeling weak and limp and lifeless.

That’s when she got her illness and it struck her fragile frame,

But shes always been stick thin so she really looked the same.

We can speculate about her size, and how much she might weigh,

 But gobbling a Black Eyed Pea counts towards her five a day.

If Simon takes her with him, across the Atlantic she will jet,

Puzzling all those poor Americans by  screaming ‘why aye pet!’

Her last few days in Britain, how she’ll spend them may well shock,

She’s gonna rub her arsehole over Danni’s lovely frocks.

But Cheryl could pass as a Yankee, she’ll love the fifth amendment,

It’ll get her off scot free when pummelling toilet attendants.

Jersey Shore

Turn off MTV, go find a Bible or Torah,

And look up the tale of Sodom and Gommorah.

2 ancient cities consumed with sexual desire,

Who God smote to the ground with an almighty fire.

These days God has mellowed, chillaxed with his mercy,

Or not cast his eye over modern day Jersey.

The den of iniquity that is Jersey Shore,

Is choc to the brim with Himbos and whores.

So God’s changed his role some 2,000 years later,

He’s not to be seen as a cock blockin’ hater.

The Jersey Shore cast, plucked from obscurity

Rubber up and butt fuck the meaning of promiscuity.

They scuttle around with one thing in mind,

To dry hump the leg of whatever they find.

It’s like Ibiza uncovered gangbanged The Hills,

But the condom split, and it aint on the pill.

Theres Snookie a sex tard who lives for cheap thrills,

Whose flaps seem to drip like a George Foreman grill.

No man is cast off, her standards are flimsy,

The sight of male flesh has her ratting her mimsy.

Then theres The Situation, a walking 6 pack,

Who should have date rapist tattooed on his back.

They drink they fight till somebody blubs,

Then work out their issues in a spunk stained hot tub.

The show is all sex, noise, fights and hype

With mildly offensive  sterotypes.

I’m sure Jerseys lovely, but its name has been tarnished,

By 6 steroid morons whose tans look like varnish.

So if God casts an eye, and does not like what it is,

He may have to blow it all down, with a blizzard of Jizz.

Kerry Katona on Ice

What could cheer a Sunday up, give it a little spice?

Oh wait I know, a talent show, mental illnesses on ice.

Alas it seems that ITV are one step ahead,

Will Kerry be able, to remain fully stable, both on ice and in her head?

Her agents like her doctor she’ll treat manic depression,

simply spike her, dress her in lycra, and spin her round in quick succession.

Will Kerry cope with pressure if she’s feeling under the weather,

With the power he yields, can Philip Schofield, piece her back together?

We worry Kerry may fail, then go out on the piss,

Just one mistake, she’ll take her skates and run them threw her wrists.

Yes we know she’s bankrupt and that needs instant action,

But a quick buck can leave you fucked, just look at Michael Jackson.

Dont breakdown on telly please, go home and get on top form,

Head this warning or be back on This Morning, slurring up an ice storm.

Katie Price Divorce Number 2

Pricey’s lost another one, her husbands said so long,

Her marriage vanished up her arse like a cheap primark made thong.

Katie Price and Alex Reid they made quite the pair,

Now they’ll divvy up the sunbeds and the brain cell that they share.

Katie Price so many things, model, mother, writer,

And proudly now the ex wife to a cross dressing cage fighter.

Will Alex get a fortune, What will the Pricey let go?

It’s said he wants her hotpants and her best pair of stilettos.

But Katie Price is savvy; she’ll always get her way

She’s palmed him off with Harvey for evenings on weekdays.

To celebrate her singledom she’s had a breast reduction,

 But she’s lost 2 tits in 2 years, and her career is in destruction.

Perhaps her next tv show will find her Husband number 3,

 Another marriage burns out, but this time in HD.

Michael Jackson

His Life was Bad, and Off The Wall, his death is now a thriller,
A real life Jackon 5 cluedo, but can you guess the killer?

An autopsy conducted, a death warrants been proctored,
at first they blamed the boogie, but now they blame his doctor.

Michael Jackon, king of pop, his family mourned his loss,
then bundled up his orphan kids for Diana Ross.

They found some deadly toxins in his blood and liver glands,
he'd still be here among us if Quincy lived in Neverland.

When he got the lethal jab, did he do his trademark squeal?
did his GP hide the evidence beneath the ferris wheel?

His face was mostly gellatine, rubber, polly filler,
that hit of sedative he took was his biggest hit since Thriller.

He took the drugs to change his moods, so he wasnt such a loner,
he had a willing dealer, a girl called Miss Katona.

For years Jacko'd been feeling down, just sitting around sulkin',
his missed his Nineties past time, grooming Macualay Culkin.

At the crematorium, the Jacksons felt fantastic,
they got an awesome buzz off the smell of burning plastic.

then afterwards at wackos house amidst the things he loved,
they auctioned off the bloody lot, the monkey and the gloves.

His business savvy father, had a nose for detail,
but Jackos nose was Play-Doh, but how much would it retail?

they throw a massive concert, the line up sounding gallant,
they even got that school boy off that show Britain's Got Talent.

Thats how they'd honour Jacko, whose wishes they could guage,
in his coffin lying stiff, whilst a small boy sings on stage.

But before we write his legacy, (and in the bin we toss it),
lets recall Jacko died the same day as Farrah Fawcett,

and from their twin demise, rests the bottom liner;
Fawcett fucked Lee Majors, whilst Jackson fucked the minors.

Kanye West

Oh Kanye West, please do your best, to keep your fat trap shut,
Your mouth goes blah, one more faux pas, you’ve dug a social rut,

Please act your age upon a stage that broadcasts to the whole world,
Sympathy shifts to Taylor Swift, the nicest of the nice girls.

Oh Kanye West, give it a rest, we tire of your shtick
Beyonce slates you, Obama hates you, acting like a prick.

Avoid fat lips, just take these tips, learn when to hold your tongue,
Don’t be a knob, watch your gob, this should stop you getting hung;

If you throw a bash, with all your cash, don’t instantly spoil it,
A vicious cycle, you ask George Michael, to use the outside toilet,

Act with honour, don’t ask Madonna, if she got them kids off ebay?
You stand to lose, asking Tom Cruise, just how long he’s been gay?

Just rise above asking Courtney Love if she owns a pistol?
If you pimp your crib, please don’t be glib, and hire Josef Fritzl.

The mood you’ll spoil with Susan Boyle, if you ask advice on groomin’
Don’t be a shit, when with Brad Pitt, ask how best to leave a woman?

Don’t be a pain, to David Blaine, and criticise his gay tricks,
Review your actions, with Samuel L. Jackson, don’t ask him about The Matrix.


Don’t be a plook when on Facebook, declare your love for Twitter,
Change your plan, to ask the McCann’s, to recommend a sitter.

If you achieve, all of these, you’ll impress the masses,
One thing left to do, is to get you, to take off the ridiculous glasses.

Derren Brown

Derren Brown’s a wizard, a real life Dumbledore,
He picked the lotto numbers, live on Channel 4.

Less like a magician, more so a messiah,
Making poor Paul Daniels push his game a little higher.

But Derren Brown of all the wonders you make me believe,
There’s certain things not even you could possibly achieve.

Could you whisper magic words, to make Posh Spice gain weight?
Or wave a magic wand, that turned Robbie Williams straight?

Or make a pantless Britney wear a pubic wig?
Or raise up Wacko Jacko to play his O2 gigs?

Could you make it so that Jordan could feel a nipple twister?
Or make us believe Danni Minogues the more successful sister?

Could you amend the GaGa’s tutu, so her balls simply hungout?
Or make Kerry Katona lucid, when really she’s strung out?

Could you make Peter Andre’s singing voice sound like Elvis Presley?
Or reinvent that Blind Date show, but hosted by John Leslie?

Or get Sir David Attenborough to kill the Andrex puppy?
Or make Heather Mills take off her leg, and still do keepy uppys?

Could you give the gift of comedy back to Eddie Murphy?
Or make Madonna cover up on her 80,000th Birthday?

Or cure Amy Winehouse’s problems, only using cannisten?
Or make Brad Pitt leave Angie, and return to Jennifer Anniston?

I reckon though that Derren Brown could do any one of these,
Just wrinkle his nose, and it would be so, with the simplest of ease.

Yet his best illusion, sits astride his head,
Brown may look brunette, but his barnetts really red!

He’s a secret ginger, and that seems quite prophetic,
He might control our minds, but he can’t change his genetics.

Katie Price Divorce Number One

Oh Katie Price, you aren’t so nice, what more will you say?

The cameras tape, and you cry rape, across the pages of OK!

On ITV2, what else would you do, but air your dirty laundry,

And all the while, through your fake smiles, we side with Peter Andre.

Oh Katie Price, what will suffice, your desire to be a trend setter?

In her next book, so proud just look, She’ll move on to joined up letters.

For the tabloids of course, you filed divorce, but bad press left you moody,

To win us back, why not change tack, and get cancer like Jade Goody?

Alas you’ll lose, fade from the news, making your temper fizz.
You’ll hit the skids, Pete gets the kids, even the one that isn’t his.

But despite what’s said, up in her head, all is rosy in Katie Price Land,
But if the Price is just right, when her career goes to shite, she’ll do adverts for Iceland.