Paris Hilton recently declared herself to be the new Marilyn Monroe. She said: “There’s nobody in the world like me. I think every decade has an iconic blonde – like Marilyn Monroe or Princess Diana – and right now, I’m that icon.” The hotel heiress has bought so many pairs of shoes she doesn’t know what to do with them all, which leads the Borkowski poet in residence to a more appropriate comparison…
If the simple fact of blonde ambition
is enough to earn one full admission
to the hallowed halls of endless fame
then Paris Hilton need not up her game.
But if, as I suspect, there’s more to do
than state your intent and hope you get through
whilst flashing your cash in a hall of mirrors
attempting to scare off other blonde terrors
who are equally desperate, just as cute
but (hopefully, hopefully) not as astute
then there’s a way to go for our Miss Hilton,
who’s made films as blue-veined as a piece of Stilton
and music to offend the deafest ears.
At ambition, admittedly, she has few peers.
One thing however, must be stated –
there’s no way on earth that she can be equated
with Princess Diana or Marilyn Monroe.
To be like the latter she has light years to go
and the former was in a league of her own
at charity, glamour and having a moan.
There’s no Di in Paris – she hasn’t the class
cover her in diamonds, she’s still made of brass.
If she wants to be remembered as something more
than a shoe-happy, tedious media whore
then she’d better find something that she can do well
or find something other than herself to sell.
At present she’s simply a blonde Imelda Marcos
who will be thrown off fame’s bucking broncos
if the grip of her well-tanned, glossy thighs
becomes as dead as her flint-like, empty eyes.