2008-11-19, 05:53 PM
kso, we had to write a diatribe for english hw, and mine is on one of the people from the Pussycat Dolls talking to Nicole Sherzinger (lead singer of Pussycat Dolls)
Nicole, wannabe, when you gave the order
to split up, then let us loose to wander
leeward, freely through the UK Top 40 yonder
as you liked to say, or ditched us, rather,
in the gutter … well, we made it big.
Now I’ve scotched that ‘she was like a mother
to us’ rumour, sacked it, blown the cover
on that ‘your boobs are natural’
story, let the cat out on that caper
with the married men, how you took them
downtown on our funds in the limo.
We’re not playing cover-up any longer
Nicole, we’ve now doffed those skimpy, tighter
than-yours pink low cut numbers
and those tiny skirts, which made our arse look bigger
for a pair of trousers and a navy blue blazer;
now I’m taller, sexier, prettier, bustier.
Nicole, it makes a marvellous picture:
you without us shadows, sobbing over
meals for one, cooking in the microwave,
next to nothing in the cave
like fridge with stacks of cheap Iceland deals
now you wish your boobs were real,
then maybe you’d have more money now
but you’re hiding behind a mask,
oh, how you have had so much surgery
you make Michael Jackson laugh
yeah baby, now we’re the real superstars
Nicole, wannabe, when you gave the order
to split up, then let us loose to wander
leeward, freely through the UK Top 40 yonder
as you liked to say, or ditched us, rather,
in the gutter … well, we made it big.
Now I’ve scotched that ‘she was like a mother
to us’ rumour, sacked it, blown the cover
on that ‘your boobs are natural’
story, let the cat out on that caper
with the married men, how you took them
downtown on our funds in the limo.
We’re not playing cover-up any longer
Nicole, we’ve now doffed those skimpy, tighter
than-yours pink low cut numbers
and those tiny skirts, which made our arse look bigger
for a pair of trousers and a navy blue blazer;
now I’m taller, sexier, prettier, bustier.
Nicole, it makes a marvellous picture:
you without us shadows, sobbing over
meals for one, cooking in the microwave,
next to nothing in the cave
like fridge with stacks of cheap Iceland deals
now you wish your boobs were real,
then maybe you’d have more money now
but you’re hiding behind a mask,
oh, how you have had so much surgery
you make Michael Jackson laugh
yeah baby, now we’re the real superstars