Anna Nicole Smith
(I would have been happy to let her die unreviled
Had I not heard a little girl on TV lament loss of a role model.)
Smith could have been happy in Texas,
serving burgers and bedding rednecks,
but instead she aspired to fame
at the University of Sleaze, where Hugh Heffner,
A wizened mummy, putrefies among pneumatic fluff balls
he wants you to think he still services.
There she cultivated as smile a huge white grimace,
Teeth clenched in a gash of vermillion,
hair a yellow disarray of scattered extensions,
her body a mass of writhing bulbs and bulges,
with the centerpiece two suspiciously spherical spheres
so massive she found it hard to remain vertical.
She was always on the verge of sideshow obesity,
of turning instantaneously into a clone of her mother,
And as she slathered her lasciviousness on one and all,
and especially on her imminent corpse of a husband,
the oil tycoon even more decayed than Heffner,
she seemed a monstrosity, a ghastly caricature
as related to sexuality as Hulk Hogan to drama.
There should have been no quarrels about her burial.
She should have been stuffed by a taxidermist
And placed in the Smithsonian on a pedestal that reads: