Archive for March 3, 2008

‘Twas the night of the GRAMMYS, and all through the land
Not a minion was squeeing, nor clappin’ their hands;
The “sure wins” that were sung on fan sites with glee,
All faded faster than the career of daughtry.

His fangirls all nestled in front of their tubes,
Had visioned four Grammys going to this rube;
Clive Davis in his Gucci, and Doc in her scrubs,
Had no idea that lil’ d soon would be drubbed.

Outside the Staples Center a D O mob gathered,
Realizin’ there’d be no awards for such blather;
Away to their ‘puters as if they’d drawn lots,
All would be claimin’ “it’s the hater’s big plot.”

The tool on the set of this four-hour show,
Gave snark worthy stuff, Attic dwellers bestowed;
When, what to the wondering eyes should appear,
But a grey-haired old man, and he’s parking Jags there.

With a little old valet, so quirky and quick,
All knew in a moment it must be Tay Hicks!
More vapid than McPhee, those posers they came,
Then the emcee named winners, and called them by name;

Now! M’roon 5, Now! White Stripes! Now! them there Foo Fighters!
Now! Springsteen, Go! Springsteen! Yes, awards for songwriters!
All of the winners did dash to the front of the stage!
But for daughtry, poor daughtry, now min’mum wage.

Like the tear drop that wells in but only one eye,
T’was like they all knew lil’ daughtry’s thing would soon die,
So back to the parkin’ lot the minions did flee,
With their high hopes all dashed, lil’ d’s hands were empty.

And then, it was tinkling, t’was heard in the dark,
No oohing, no awwing but tons of good snark.
He let out a sigh while he was taking a pee,
From the alley was heard “no world dom’nation for me.”

He was dressed all in black, from bald head to his toes,
Adorned with a wallet chain to taunt all his foes;
A giant tattoo he had penned on his back,
Made him look like a poser not just a sad sack.

His eyes — they were vacant! His head freshly clippered!
His face how it grimaced, like his dick’d been zippered?
His trollish lil’ mouth was drawn up in a pucker,
And the patch on his chin screamed out “I’m a sucker.”

His stump of a body clung tight to his wife,
And the tool did encircle her arm for dear life;
He has the Spice Boys and, but little else really,
In fact, in real life, this tool’s truly quite mealy.

He is stubby and short, a right ugly lil’ gnome,
And all laughed when they saw him, “He’s but a mere clone.”
A tear in his eye and an alien head,
One tune from his mouth and the people’s ears bled.

He lost all awards, and fell straight to the floor,
T’was filling his pockets; Clive yelled “TOOL, THE DOOR!”
Then flipping the finger to all the IN cliques,
He gave out a shout, “I’m way better than Hicks.”

He slunk to his car, with all the Spice Boys in tow,
On the way he exclaimed “Fuck, I lost four in a row!”
To those who tell him, t’was nom’nations that mattered,
Bugger n’ blast to y’all, his career has been shattered!