A sweetie named Felicity
desiring fame and celebrity
abandoned her career of choice
to get her tits out for the boys.
Alas a glamour models lot
though lucrative is rather short;
as soon as people knew her face
Fliss found she had lost her place
in the yearly readers’ favourites poll.
Poor Fliss, reduced to claiming dole,
was very quickly going broke
when one day she met a flashy bloke
who said, "when a girl’s not doing well
the best thing is to kiss and tell;
while a vestige of you fame remains
seize the day and grab the reins.
If some man leaves you in a mess
you sell your story to the press.

You’ll make some wonga, pay the rent.
I’m happy to be your agent.
A sports star is the place to start:
boff him then say he broke your heart.
The story will earn at least ten grand,
more if he’s a married man.
Fliss took the geezer at his word
and began to hatch plans so absurd
no fiction writer could conceive
such stories, yet the public will believe
the monstrous trash the media print.
Felicity earned herself a mint.
 

A football star was her first prize,
a politician on the rise,
a rock idol, a movie actor,
nothing it seemed could distract her
from the quest to make her love life pay
and grab a headline every day.
 

At last lines showed round her mouth,
pert boobies started heading south.
"It’s time to negotiate a fee
for writing your autobiography,
but first" her agent had advised,
"we need something to maximise
your sales and media coverage
and profit not just from printed page.
With product tie – ins to diversify
the brand based on celebrity
it’s possible to prolong careers
of fading slebs for years and years.
To relaunch you we need a scoop.
Said Fliss, I will seduce The Pope.
When she revealed "I was Pope’s lover,"
Her picture was on every cover.
But truth will out to spoil the hype,
Felicity had shagged a lookalike.