If silverfish are nibbling at your toenails in the night,

I beg of you, my sweet, don't tell a soul,

the media will blow it up - they never get it right!

your self-respect's already in a hole.

As paparazzi try and snap your chapped and crappy feet,

outwit them all, my dear, and hide them well,

a contract isn't binding till the signature's complete,

"Exclusive" means the Sunday Rags as well!

Deny your life's ambitions and go out and whore your work,

insist upon your tour around the block,

ignore the ones who would embrace the role of Captain Kirk

when plainly, they would not exist as Spock.

If Fonzie snaps his fingers, run and lie down on your back,

and never eat at Joe's or call a cab,

it matters not how far your bank account is from the black,

for Hollywood will put it on your tab.

As celluloidal cancer slowly eats away your life,

no whimper of regret should pass your lips,

a botox bath may save you from that poker player's knife,

and pills can stop the bulging of your hips.

So, hug your little statue, he's a cinch to dry your eyes,

you only cry because of what you are,

and never mention talent, dear, we don't tell bare-faced lies,

you screwed your way to twinkle as a star.