Delta (a poem).
Monday, April 24. 1:28AM
Do you all know about Delta Goodrem? She’s Australia’s sweetheart. A few years ago she was on Neighbours where she was very beautiful, and then she was a singer for a little while. After that the poor dear got cancer for a bit, which made us all feel for her (her short hair was less attractive than her long, but it looked a lot better on her than basically every other young woman who has tried it – I’m talking to you Natalie Portman). Then she dated a tennis player, who dumped her horribly, breaking her precious heart all over the tabloids, poor thing. After that she was in a movie, but wasn’t really the star, and then went off to conquer the US, I think, but she can’t have done that well, because she was back here a few weeks ago at out commonwealth games. She may have slept with John Farnham at some point, I’m not sure. Anyway, just now I was in the shower pretending to be a rock star, and I was imaging that at one point Delta would be lowered down onto my stage, sitting at her big grand piano. She’d sing her one song (it’s just a walk on that she’s doing), and then she’d try and leave (she’s an innocent kind of girl, and she’s not too keen on spending time around guys like us - we’re basically Areosmith), but I’d coax her back… “Oh Delta, won’t you stay just a little while? Just sit right there and let me serenade you with one song. I think the audience agrees with me…” She’d blush and smile and I’d grin manically and the squib I’d stashed in my crotch would explode confetti all over her with a big flash, and a three foot rubber cock would slowly unfurl itself. She’d get up and start to storm off, but I’d grab her arm and get down on one knee and say “Delta, you’re the most beautiful girl in the world… let me recite a poem for you.”
Delta (a poem)
You’re so svelte-a,
You’ve got me hot like an iron smelter.
I can feel my heart, it starts to melt-a.
You’ve got me believing in helta-skelta.
(aside to audience: That’s Charlie Manson’s idea that the blacks would rise against the whites and that he would lead them because he was Jesus, and that killing Sharon Tate would get the whole thing started. Read up on it, he makes a pretty convincing argument.)
I’d give you any kind of shelter,
After I took you to the altar.
My faithfulness would never falter.
It’d be okay if you didn’t like James Salter.
I’d like it if you wore a halter,
But you look great in anything, my Delta.
I’d travel the world with you, dear Delta.
We’d see the rock at old Gibraltar.
Together we’d explore the Mekong Delta.
Girl I’d take you off to Malta,
And maybe then to nearby Yalta.
In Belgium there’s chocolate called Peralta,
Which I’m sure isn’t nearly as sweet as Delta.
Your skin looks as soft as felt-a.
I think you’d tell me if I smelt-a.
I want to skin you and wear your pelt-a.
I want you to take off my belt-a.
Although you’ll never be omega,
You’ll always be my only,