A white face and a gash of scarlet mouth:
a fake Madonna grabs her crotch, and struts.
Crows-feet show through; the bust has gone way south;
the powdered neck tells tales; the rear end juts.

The hotel function room is thronged, but there —
there by the window — she espies a clone:
the same red lips, black leather, and bleached hair.
What joy that after all she’s not alone!

But most have found each other sooner: see —
two Michael Caines together. “Don’t you dare,”
says one, “point... that great big spear... at me.”
“Zulu!” says Caine Two. “What I can’t bear

is birds who won’t wear gloves to scrub the floor
who then get hold of me with ’orny ’ands.”
Says Caine One, “Alfie!... What’s all of it for?”
Says Two, “You’re pissed again, just like at Cannes.”

The Anastacias spill into the hall;
a band strikes up, plays nothing she has sung.
A bomber-flight of Bushes circles; all
look too intelligent, and most too young.

At the bar, three Connery beards converse.
“The worrld’s sexiest voice? Well, I abhor
those cheesy titles,” one of them observes.
“But I’ll admit I have had Pussy Galore!”

Twinned Hillaries practice senator ad lib,
shunning the Bills, a predatory three
who roam the room together, cocksure, glib,
as if their pants hid WMD.

Four sycophantic Blairs speak stop-and-start:
“And had the... Coalition... Not... Decided...”
“We shall... Of course play... A vigorous part.”
“We are prepared... to bark if asked... provided...”

While greying Geldofs wrestle with the voice,
and hatted Janet Jacksons form a pair,
the Eddie Murphies share their raucous choice
of wit: “You’re wakin’ up ma dick! A-ha-ha!”

A few are single: one subjunctivizes —
a balding jug-eared Charles — to Norah Jones,
“Might one request that we not talk of trizers?”
She thinks of trousers all the more (and thrones).

A fat Dame Edna’s told by Cary G:
“Possum? That’s not a name I answer to!
I wonder what you think a man like me
could have in common with a girl like you.”

A Tiger with a golf club pads around
alone, maroon of shirt. There’s loneliness
in being one of one. Yet who’s this, bound
his way and with a look of friendliness?

And now fast-forward to the last half-hour.
The bars are closed; the Murphys are all out
of laughs; the Janets brood; the Geldofs glower;
the two Madonnas, parted, wear a pout;

the Hillaries are left with nothing more
to say; the Bills, now limp, have ceased to prowl;
each Bush finds all his counterparts a bore;
the Caines have dropped their smiles; the Connerys growl.

But over by the wall a breakout Blair
has found a friend; the single Tiger purrs,
relaxed, his stripes revitalized. And there
Dame Edna, out of character, concurs

with Cary’s take on some fine point of Bach,
a shared delight discovered with surprise.
And here’s another pair: ah, such a spark
now lights up Norah’s and the Prince’s eyes!