A celebrity-driven Halloween fantasy by the Borkowski poet in residence.
A loopy young celeb called Tom Cruise
surfed sofas in search of his muse.
He found her consuming
a reporter called Blooming
in search of some headline news.
It was of course Halloween
and Tom had been a year off the screen
after the Paramount lot
got decidedly hot,
but he didn’t expect to see what he’d seen.
That fame has a price we all know;
only practices strange make it grow
but Blooming was lunch
because Tom’s muse had a hunch
that she had that bit further to go.
So Tom stopped her and took her aside
and her carnivorous ways he decried.
Too cross to be wary
he didn’t see her palms getting hairy
until she took her angst out on his hide.
Around Hollywood’s hills they’re now prowling
and scratching and sniffing and growling
in search of more fame
and some tender young game
and a big budget remake of The Howling.
If this sorry little tale has a moral
it is that famous lovers shouldn’t quarrel.
They’ll only turn vicious
if they’re over-ambitious
until their fixations become scarily oral.