Members of the Musicocracy
My Lords, ladies and rock stars
All rise and be upstanding for our new royalty
(They’re only blue-blooded because of the amount of drugs they’ve taken,
but never mind, let’s be kind). Hello, Your Right Royal High-Ness
Welcome, Sir Bob and Baronet Bono,
Lord of the Amazon Jungle – Sting
Lord Puffy of Diddyland
Of course, Sir Macca and Your Bowieness
There’s Lady Madonna of course – with her Scottish castle and her lands,
Her own chef cooking her food-free, fad-rich, meals whilst she snaps grouse-necks with her bare hands.
Fatboy loved his three-storey terraced Brighton town house so much he bought…
the whole terrace.
Rod Stewart has his own jet – dyed peroxide blonde
Tom Jones has got a velvet-lined loo seat, of which he’s very fond
They’ve all got their own charities and causes
Papped out riding their horses
Or snapped by there fleets of cars, lined up on their gravel drives
Glassy-eyed, royal wavers, living rarified, regal lives
Meanwhile, there’s a season to enjoy. Wellies and oversized shades have replaced crisp taffeta for the annual Mudsuckers’ Ball (that’s Glastonbury)
Like the ‘real’ aristocracy, there’s a few misfits and mentalists
– it’s the small gene pool, ain’t it.
Darling Georgie Michael. Caught in the toilets once again.
All boys’ school, was it?
Poor Marquis de Saddo – Michael ‘Bubbles’ Jackson. He’s shamed the bloodline y’know
Gary Glitter too. And we all thought he was the leader, the leader. But he stooped too low
Jordan gets snubbed at Polo, Kate Moss caught in mid-snort
Catching out the new lords and ladies is a hack’s daily sport
Kings and queens have come and gone, the present lot have lost their sheen,
But our culture’s crowned a new dynasty – big rock stars have usurped the Queen.
It’s a Royal Wedding when Posh’n’Becks got hitched, sat on his’n’her thrones. I bet Lizzie’s regal nose twitched as she surveyed the bones
Left over from a time when she and her forbears were revered
Leading by birth-right and majesty, which sounds a bit weird, these days.
And it’s not just the Windsors who’ve been upstaged.
Pop-star aristocracy is all the rage
Dukes and duchesses in Burke’s Peerage – that’s all gawn for a burton
Now its Heat and Closer magazines, the only thing that’s certain
Is our appetite for new, shiny, glossy, unpockmarked heads.
Replacing those that have rolled…who needs a Revolution?
Our old boys’ networks nearly all dead.