The casting couch is nothing new.
Men like me we claim our due
from all those hopeful little tarts
who come to us for walk-on parts.
Their accusations are quite hateful;
the bitches really should be grateful.
It’s obvious they are pre-menstrual,
all that happened was consensual.
Fat sweaty men are all the fashion;
we are the very height of passion.
And standing there all tits and arse,
it’s plain they’re begging for a pass.
I think you really must agree
the victim here is poor old me.
I’m hoping for a second chance
(they do it all the time in France).
For folks like me life isn’t fair,
it’s hard to be a billionaire.
It’s not my fault I was begat
with morals like an alley cat.
A week in rehab should suffice
to show the world that I am nice
and if you say that isn’t true,
I’ll track you down and I will sue.
But my P.C. right-on profession
demand I make a frank confession
and apologise in full to you
for all those things I didn’t do.
So mea culpa, sorry, soz
I’m not the man I thought I was.
See – it’s not hard to put things right.
I just need to seem contrite.
© 2017 Geoff Mead