Three fashion editors at Macbeth’s new
Gossip magazine gather around their
Lastest crop of embarrassing photos.
Their leader laughs maniacally, then speaks:
Leader: Fashionistas seeking fame
Clamor ‘round the famous name
Terrorized by growing fears
As the paparazzi nears.
Timid starlet, preening star –
Makes no difference who you are!
You will be condemned in time
To a life of fashion crime.
Each transgression, big or little,
We’ll condemn, with no acquittal.
All: Hail us, we’re the style elite!
Each opinion that we tweet
Gets devoured by anxious masses,
Whom we treat like senseless asses.
Leader: Exposés of fashion slips
Flow like manna from our lips:
Gaudy dresses, wrinkled suits,
Tennis shoes and mukluk boots –
All incur our scornful wrath
As we stalk the red-rugged path.
We won’t rest until our dictums
Reign supreme among our victims
And our narrow view of fashion
Is the public’s only passion.
All: Listen to the style elite!
Readers merely stand and bleat
While we fill their minds with drivel
Till their tiny brain cells shrivel.
Leader: Butchered haircuts, colored messes,
Hairdos wired for bogus tresses,
Hair extensions fail the task.
Rugs and toupees – must you ask?
Caps or bonnets, we don’t care;
Cover-ups won’t help your hair!
Listen to our expert voices
As we bash your foolish choices
Till your sense of style succumbs:
Something wigged this way comes!