If I Met Jenny

I think we’re all star-struck
To some extent, aren’t we?
We’d like to meet someone famous
Maybe not to just say we did
But just to have a little bit
Of their time.

Would Michael Caine
Be as charming
As he seems?
I’d like to buy him “a cuppa”
And ask his opinion
Of American politics.

I’d like to visit Willie
On his tour bus
And have a smoke with him
And sleep it off for 3 days straight
Afterwards.

I’d sell my car
To afford one cigar
To offer Michael Jordan
And ask him
“How’s the ego holding up?”

I’d like to buy Robert Duvall
A cup of coffee
And ask him:
“Boo Radley, Gus McCrae, or Tom Hagen,
Which was
Most fun
Most challenging
Most rewarding?”

I’d bring a box of chocolates
To that Crosby girl-(Mary?)
(Yes, Mary)
And ask if Bing was really
An abusive prick
And why the hell
Did you shoot J.R., you bitch?

I’d buy Walter Mosley
“3 straight shots of bourbon”
And tell him, “You’re right:
‘Enough whiskey can take the edge off sunshine.'”
And ask him
Why the hell Easy Rawlins
Has to be so damn hard
On his women
And on himself.

Meryl Streep
I can’t get a read on what to offer her
Maybe a bagel with cream cheese
And a bloody Mary?
(I’d bet on tea though)
I’d tell her that I’d write a check
Right then and there
For a hundred bucks (hey that’s a lot, to me)
To her favorite charity
If she’d sing me just one verse
Of “Amazing Grace.”

And Jenny, oh Jenny what can I say?
I’d buy Ms. McCarthy
Whatever she thirsted for
I’d hand her a beautifully
Gift-wrapped box
From a fancy New York
Department store
With one hand towel in it
To her furrowed-brow query
I’d sweetly reply:
“For the blood, you know
On your hands, on your hands,
For the blood that’s all over
Your beautiful hands.”

 

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