A Bit Famous

I'm just a bit famous
A bit well-known
No photographers are camped outside my home
My wax model isn't in Madame Tussauds
And a Lamborghini I can't afford

I'm not renowned
Like Elvis, Michael Jackson
Or the Queen
If I'm spotted in the street
Then nobody screams
“There goes the King of Poetry”
And I've never had a show on the BBC
Or ITV

I'm not a millionaire
I don't own a mansion
I don't get asked for autographs either
I've not been to Hollywood
I've not got a knighthood
I'm a flea next to Cheryl Cole or Justin Bieber

Now I DO get letters from my fans
That you can count them on the fingers of one hand
Of course I am more famous than YOU
Though Posh and Becks are bigger
Simon Cowell is too

But I'm not a megastar
I'm not a jet-setter
Only a poet, that's me: Neal Zetter
I'm not seen in Hello magazine
Or featured in the media
I've never had my own page in Wikipedia
I've not appeared in movies
Or had a number one hit
And my name's not on the back of your football kit

So if you ask me am I famous?
Am I famous?
Am I famous?
I say maybe...
Just a bit

Orange Man

He was an orange man
Had a fake sun tan
Said he went to Saint Tropez
Lied about his holiday
Booked the tanning shop instead
Lazed on a sunbed

Never been to Africa
Never been to India
Never seen America
Never seen Jamaica

He was an orange man
Had a fake sun tan
Chose to stay every day
Under ultraviolet rays
Made his skin feel just like leather
Though he'd never seen hot weather

Never been to Italy
Never been to Turkey
Never been to Portugal
Never been to Spain at all

He was an orange man
Had a fake sun tan
Changed his colour overnight
Though certain bits remained white
Didn't use a sun block
Only goggles and a sock

Never been to Tonga
Never been to China
Never been to Greece you know
Never been to Mexico

He was an orange man
Had a fake sun tan
Didn't need transport
Didn't need a passport
Had a very strange look
Like a chicken overcooked

Never been to Cuba
Not seen Madagascar
Never been to Pakistan
Israel, Egypt or Japan

He was an orange man
Had a fake sun tan

Chingford, E4

 
 
On north-east London’s edge
Home of 4 by 4s with the latest reg
Private schools of privilege
And the animal-shaped privet hedge
As plain as meat, potatoes and two veg
If you leave the Capital for Essex 
Then you’d best ignore
Where even the lions whisper 
And never raise a roar
Chingford, E4

Men play at DIY in their garden shed
This town’s streets have got no street cred
Want excitement? Then spend the day asleep in bed
Or visit the morgue instead
‘Cause you’ll get a lot more
Than in the place that’s a perpetual nil-nil draw 
(No score)
Chingford, E4

Full of white middle classes
Talking loft extensions, golf
Oh so up there own arses
People making sideways not forward passes
While the flags of St George are ominously waving
Where the Freemasons want to bring back slave trading
Where restless `yoof’ are misbehaving
‘Cause this ‘hoods got no clubs or raves in
So of course they break the law 
Chingford, E4

Streets full of: 
Gossip speakers
Tall story talkers
Finger waggers
Pedigree dog walkers
Trolley pushing OAPs
Nosey curtain stalkers
Tory blue to the core
This ain’t Brixton, Camden or Highbury
The most `in’ venue is the Library
Chingford, E4

Commuters swarm to City jobs via the train station
Residents protest about Tesco’s planning application
Mr Angry’s supporting letter’s in the local rag
Why don’t he get a life and go and have a shag?
Last refuge for the dinosaur
Chingford, E4

The Green is brown with dog poo
If you like horse manure
The roads are full of that too
Chingford’s paler than pale ale
A windless sail
Slower than British Rail
An arthritic snail
Minus 100 on the Richter Scale
Looking for Suburbia’s Holy Grail?
Check us out on the map
Find blandness on tap
For a day out that’s crap
Come and explore
Where you go to when you draw
The shortest of short strawzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz…
Chingford, E4

Russell the Brussels Sprout

I'm Russell the Brussels Sprout

A roughy
A toughy
A beast
And a lout
I bully my way onto your plate
I'm rude
I'm crude
I'm the food you most hate
Bad Bill Broccoli is my best mate
I'm Russell the Brussels Sprout

I'm small
So uncool
A poisonous ball
Awfully obnoxious
And not sweet at all
Can you think of a more horrid vegetable
Than me - Russell the Brussels Sprout?

I'll ruin your delicious Christmas dinner
Give you frightening nightmares as well
If you want `disgusting' then I'm a winner
I'm cooked in the kitchens of hell

I'm mean
I'm green
Utterly obscene
You'd prefer a cute carrot or a beautiful bean
Cover me in ketchup
Smother me in sauce
Drown me in gravy
I'll still spoil your main course
If I'm finally swallowed it's often by force
I'm Russell the Brussels Sprout

I'm deadly and foul
I'm putrid and rotten
And bitter – so best left in Tesco forgotten
I'm the storm cloud to spoil the sunniest day
'Cause I make so much wind that I'll blow you away
All children scream “YUCK” when they see me and say
“I don't want Russell the Brussels Sprout”

Uncle Jim's an Elvis Impersonator

Uncle Jim’s an Elvis impersonator
He swivels and sways his hips
Singing every Elvis song
While curling his top lip
 
He knows the words he knows the tunes
Hound Dog, Teddy Bear and more
You’ll spot him in his Blue Suede Shoes
While dancing round the floor
 
Uncle Jim’s an Elvis impersonator
Thick sideburns, greased-back hair
He looks kind of cute in his shiny Elvis suit
And his Elvis underwear
 
He saw Elvis’ Graceland mansion
Stopped in Las Vegas too
The Elvis golden disc he bought
Hangs proudly in his loo
 
Uncle Jim’s an Elvis impersonator
He treats him like a god
Though doctors who examine Jim
Say that he’s very odd
 
The sign he’s fixed on his front door
Reads: `Welcome – Heartbreak Hotel’
You’ll get a burst of Love Me Tender
If you call and ring his bell
 
Uncle Jim’s an Elvis impersonator
He’s got the voice just right
“Thangyouverymuch” he says
While doing Elvis karaoke all night
 
For his forty-fifth birthday
He plans to change his name
He’ll then be Uncle Elvis
And that will sound quite strange
 
Uncle Jim’s an Elvis impersonator
Some say he lives in the past
But he says, “Holy smoke and saints alive
“I just want to make his legend last”
 
My Uncle says though Elvis has died
He lives on in his soul
So if you see Jim
Make his day and say to him
`Hey – aren’t you the King of Rock n Roll?”
 
 

The Fastest Poem Ever Written

 
 
Did you see this poem coming from over the hill?
Cranking into overdrive and into clanking into overkill
It’s electric
It’s hectic
And totally frenetic
It’s the fastest poem ever written
Quicker than Quicksilver
Faster than the Flash
A million times more dashing than the million mile dash
It’s a bash 
It’s a smash
A two hundred mile an hour car crash 
All these words crammed and jammed 
Bursting out from this 63-line parcel
Dizzier than Dizzy Rascal 
Fizzier than a Bucks Fizz
It’s the fastest poem in poetry showbiz
It’s a whiz
Ignited and inspired
By a muse so mad and manic
Scribbled down in such a rush
And delivered in a panic
An inferno a volcano of the ultimate hellfire
A burning baking bright bleeding steel hot wire
It’s the fastest poem ever written
So I’ll grab my breath
Or my obituary will state “here lies a poet who performed himself to death”
Acceleration’s my aim
As I’m emptying my soul
This poem’s twenty times more powerful than a Ronaldo free-kick goal
Flying off his feet
And searing your ears
A whirling white heat
A tornado twister
Guaranteed to make your eardrums boil, burst and blister
And inflict pain on those 
Switched to listening mode 
In their brain
I’ll fly it up the flag pole so you can salute it again
While other odes, lyrics and raps 
Are still in their starting position
This lightening paced literature
Has already completed its mission
What’s the hastiest poem you’ve ever heard?
There’s no split decision
This is the fastest piece of poetry that’s ever been written
More nuclear energy than Atomic Kitten
It’s smitten with speed
If it’s left you for dead 
Slow it down when you read it inside your head

It’s aurally challenging 
Pretty brain damaging
But even the fastest poem ever written 
Has to stop and refuel sometime
Cross that metaphorical finishing line 
So I’ll take my foot off the pedal
And settle for a gold medal
And a strong glass of full-bodied red wine
Internally glowing 
At the thought of ever knowing
That the fastest poem ever written in the world
Was mine

Neal Zetter: 4th Sugababe

 
 
So I was there
At the Sugababes’ audition
Thinking my singing voice was in tip-top condition
As I performed a wicked harmony
On Push the Button
Ugly
And Freak Like Me

So why did I feel un-ease-ee?
A sense of inferiority
Washed over me

‘Cause I had all the right clothes
All the right moves
Make up
A blonde wig
All the right grooves
And a pair of swanky high-heeled glittery shoes
Now I’m not cross-dresser 
But is there anything you wouldn’t do
To make your dream come true?
Yes - I was happy to misbehave
If it meant I could be the 4th Sugababe

It could have been so much more than just my fifteen minutes of fame
It was what I was built for
My raison d’etre
Becoming the 4th Sugababe 
Brit Awards, money, groupies, world-wide recognition etcetera
People asking for my autograph saying “Neal we’re glad we met ya”

So I was there with the Babes
Just the four of us
Me, Keisha, Heidi
And the other one who’s pretty…
Anonymous
Then the bombshell dropped
With a giant p-lop
My heartbeat s-topped
As Heidi said
“Look – the thing is Neal
What we feel is
Though it’s been a difficult decision
It’s a Sugababes tradition
To admit only girls into the band
You are kinda cute
A fab vocalist to boot
But the thing is YOU’RE A MAN
So I hope you understand
That you just wouldn’t suit”
Well!
Clutching straws I looked over at Keisha
Who alas agreed with Heidi and solemnly nodded
Then the other one (whose name I still didn’t know) did the same
After she was prodded

I wanted to scream “foul”
Cry “sexual discrimination”
And being Jewish as well look at anti-racist legislation
But bitterness can drag you down
And I thought I’d get a few quid on E-bay
For my stage outfit and ball-gown

In fact the Babes were great really
They said the call was tough
That they hoped I felt I hadn’t been treated too rough
As I left they gave me stickers, posters CDs and all kindsa stuff
Tickets for their next show
They said I could be an extra in their next video
(I asked Heidi for her mobile number but she told me where to go)

And if you’re wondering
How I managed to pull myself back together
Well my motto is: “never say never”
So I’m NOT gonna live my life under a cloud
Instead I’m completing my application
To be the 6th member
Of Girls Aloud

I Can Rap

 
 
It took me 46 years 
I had to conquer my fears
Hold back my tears
Bow to pressure from my peers
Seek out unused parts in that thing between my ears
I nearly missed my chance and blew it
But I didn’t
I can do it
I’ve broken out the trap 
Without a mishap
I can rap

Ain’t no-one gonna hold me back
‘Cause I’ve got myself travelling on the right track
Modified my plan of attack
I’m a middle aged white guy
I ain’t even black
But I’m pleased to say 
That today 
When I go away 
To record my next track
I can rap

Never mind Eminem
Or Ms Dynamite
I’m gonna set the place alight
With this cascading rhythm
Put aside your scepticism
And your cynicism
I’m gonna buy myself a Nike baseball cap
Gonna mix it with the gangsta men
Larging it on Kiss FM
I can rap

So don’t take me for an old guy
Don’t take me for a sap
I’ve fallen into this
As easy as I can fall into your lap
Pulled myself up by the bootstraps
Open up your ear flaps
And listen to me
I’ve made a great discovery
I’ve uncovered me 
Dusted down from the shelf
My new found poetry is a picture of health
I say it over and over and over and over and over 
Again to myself
I can rap 

He’s a P.I.G

He never ever has enough
Although he’s full he’ll stuff and stuff
Three cakes, four buns and a Crunchie too
His belly bounces more than a kangaroo
He’ll slurp and gobble, gulp and chew
Because he is a pig
He’s a pig
He’s a pig
He’s a P.I.G
His diet’s a catastrophe
If you met him then you’d agree
That he’s a P.I.G

His appetite is never-ending
It’s grub not people he’s befriending
Ten meals a day is just a snack
He shops in Sainsbury’s with a sack
He’s gonna have a heart attack
Because he is a pig
He’s a pig
He’s a pig
He’s a P.I.G
At dinner he’s in ecstasy
You eat for one, he eats for three
Yes he’s a P.I.G

He swallowed up twelve loaves of bread
His doctor said “He should be dead”
His breakfast is a whole horse baked
His lunch is fifteen fillet steaks
He burps and starts a huge earthquake
Because he is a pig
He’s a pig
He’s a pig
He’s a P.I.G
Butter, biscuits, pork pies, cheese
Check out his larder then you’ll see
Why he’s a P.I.G

He ate the dog’s food and the cat’s
Addicted to full-cream and fat
He even eats asleep at night
Some say his mouth should be sewn tight
Hold on to your head he might take a bite
Because he is a pig
He’s a pig
He’s a pig
He’s a P.I.G
Devouring every calorie
He’ll eat YOUR dinner too for tea
He’s a greedy P.I.G

If…I Was French

 
 
If I had a second chance 
I‘d chose to be born 
Not in England
But in France

I’d buy l’apartment on the Champs Elysees
My French exams would be more easy
I’d not be a man but un homme
I’d not eat an apple but mange une pomme
Eat fresh crusty white sticks not naff cut bread
Every weekend I’d swim in the Med
Sleep dans le lit not in my bed
Say “je suis mort” not “I am dead”
These are the things I’d do instead
If…
I was French

I’d say “Paris was gay” 
Without fear of sniggering or humiliation
Finally I’d live in a top footballing nation
And because of my Gallic reincarnation
I’d know what Pret a Manger really meant
I’d lose my pent up English sexual repression
And beer-fuelled aggression
And stop discussing the weather like it’s an obsession
I’d sit in the sun tous les jours drinking du vin
The term `Frog’ I would definitely ban
These are the things that I would do
If I was born under rouge, blanc et bleu and not red, white and blue
I’d say “deux” while you say “two”
I’d say “trois” while you say “three”
I’d say “moi” while you say “me”
I’d drink café while you drink tea
And while you retain your Little Englander men-tal-it-y
I’d shout aloud with a resounding `Oui! Oui! Oui!’
I’d learn the language of love not Cock-en-y
I want to exchange my count-ry
Like – how you say?
Go en Francais
Have parties and raves every Bastille Day
Achieve a perfect pronunciation of `fromage frais’
William the Conqueror, Joan of Arc, Eric Cantona, Bridgitte Bardot
Napoleon, Asterix the Gaul, Edith Piaf, Marcel Marceau
It’s the way to go!
It would be so beau
So please pass me another escargot
I’d even suffer the garlic stench
If…
I was French

Friday is Chip Day

Friday is Chip Day
A love to lick your lips day
What do all our teachers say?
Friday is Chip Day
 
Friday is a top day
The chips just never stop day
Not pork pie or lamb chop day
Friday is Chip Day
 
Friday is a great day
No need to watch your weight day
A run to the school gate day
Friday is Chip Day
 
Friday is the best day
A zip and zap and zest day
A plenty to digest day
Friday is Chip Day
 
Friday is a cool day
A love to go to school day
An only just one rule day
Friday is Chip Day
 
Friday is a fave day
A never misbehave day
An eat the food you crave day
Friday is Chip Day
 
Grab vinegar, salt and tomato sauce
When that day comes around of course
If you’re hungry enough to eat a horse
Don’t worry…
Because
Friday is Chip Day
 
 

My Computer Died Last Night

My computer died last night

After many repairs he gave up his fight
With one last hug
I pulled out his plug
And out went his monitor light

He was part of the family
A very special relation
Storing my folders, documents, photos
And personal information
I used words like 'great loss', 'gutted' and 'devastation'
As my IT
Was consigned to history
When my computer died last night

He knew so much about me
With each keystroke we grew closer
Displaying so much more intelligence
Than the my vacuum cleaner, TV or toaster

I'll miss his silver casing
His keyboard and his mouse
I'll miss his warm and welcoming screen
When returning home to my house
I'll miss his Bart Simpson wallpaper
His processor's gentle hum
Surfing the Net together we had tonnes and tonnes of fun
Of all the computers in the whole wide PC World
He was my special one

I'll still reminisce about the files we shared
Upgrading his memory
Installing the latest software
From megabytes to kilobytes to gigabytes to deep despair
When my computer died last night

His metal body's now with the waste
But his spirit wanders in cyberspace
With his mind preserved and alive
On a portable hard drive
Waiting someday to be reconnected
To a new machine...and then resurrected

So despite holding a funeral
I had no need to be sad at all
When my computer died last night

LOUD

 
 
I love to play my music loud
Open my windows
Attract a crowd
Make a row
In the street below
Let the music flow
Put on the greatest show
Welcome to my free disco
It’s the way to go
Dig the party I’m gonna throw
I love to play my music 
LOUD!

The speakers are banging “Boom! Boom! Boom!”
I want to wake the aliens on the moon
They too can dig my favourite tune
Blaring out in full bloom
Soul, metal, jazz, folk, hip hop
Reggae, punk, funk, indie rock
R&B, rap, bubblegum pop
Up goes the volume 
I don’t wanna stop
I love to play my music 
LOUD!

I want the world record for noisy music to break
I want to make the walls and the crockery shake
And vibrate
I want to feel the sound all around
Hear the drums crash, bash, smash
And the rhythm pound
In my head
I want to disturb everyone asleep in bed
And wake dead
What’s that word I said?
I love to play my music 
LOUD!

I don’t need earphones or an iPod
I want my music to reach up to God
In the sky
And make aeroplanes quiver as they fly by
‘Cause I’m a musical guy
Till the day I die
Music’s the apple of my eye
I’ve got no other fish to fry
So silence is in short supply
I love to play my music 
LOUD!

Staffytown

 
 
Now is it just my imagination
Or has there been a proliferation
All over our nation
In every conceivable area
Of the bête noire of bête noires
The Staffordshire Bull Terrier?

Insidiously they’re taking over
Due to Neolithic men from John O’Groats to Dover
None of this “hi - I’m a nice doggy called Rover?” 
But instead 
It’s “don’t come near me mate coz I’ll bite off your bleedin’ ‘ead”

And it’s not Rover 
But Psycho
Or Rocky
Or Rambo
Or Killer
They wanna have your kids for a snack or sandwich filler
That’s the kinda thing that’s going down
All over the UK, aka Staffytown

Dogs owned by men with inferiority complexes trying to boost their virility
Or Mr and Mrs Nutter hell-bent on destroying our peace and tranquillity
Forever looking like their pets
High incidences of one-armed vets
I’m shopping down the road covered in sweat
While the Staffies all wear collars decorated with metal studs
Have stocky necks 
Stronger than my pecs 
Scarier than a t.rex
And a penchant for the smell of my blood

What happened to our poodle loving society
Sensitivity, sanity and sobriety?
Where has a gentle woof been replaced by a bloodcurdling snarling sound?
All over the UK, aka Staffytown

And being a pussycat
Is a dangerous thing to be
Rampant doggies
Cause suicidal moggies
To write to Dear Deirdre
E.g. 
“This dog I know ate Pedigree Chum
Now he wants warm feline for tea
Namely me!”

Ok, some people have them for protection
But that’s how America started with guns
We’re moving in the wrong direction 
To protect your home from harm
Get an old-fashioned burglar alarm
Not a frenzied animal that bites first and asks questions later
With razor sharp teeth to put to shame any self-respecting alligator
Where has the once strong but safe Alsatian 
All but lost its crown?
All over the UK, aka Staffytown

I’m no canine hater
But Staffies will get us all sooner or later
If brought up like sharks on heat
And taught “human arse = yummy meat”
So blame the owner not the hound
It’s them we should by putting down
Then we’ll reclaim out cities by the score
Dogs we meet on the street we can greet and shake their paw
No mutilation, laceration, aggravation anymore
Peaceful pooches and playful puppies all around
All over the UK
Come the day 
It’s not aka 
Staffytown

An Alien Lives at Number 42

A most unusual creature dwells next door
Put your ear to my wall you can hear him snore
Made of plastic
And elastic
His favourite meal is monster stew
There's an alien who lives at number 42

He has a giant TV aerial growing from his head
"Greetings Earth man" was the first thing he said
He's podgy
And splodgy
Wears a size 16 shoe
There's an alien who lives at number 42

He really is quite a friendly Martian chap
Who does't want to conquer us or anything like that
He's rubbery
And blubbery
I pinch myself but know it's true
There's an alien who lives at number 42

You can see his flying saucer parked outside
Give him three jelly babies he'll take you for a ride
He's spongy 
And grungy
I don't know his name - do you?
There's an alien who lives at number 42

He bought a one-way ticket from outer-space
So he could reside with the human race
He's kind of tall
But kind of small
Would you find him at the zoo?
No - he's the alien who lives at number 42!

dmpd by txt

 
 
You could’ve taken me to a romantic place
You could’ve got me drunk first so I was off my face
You could’ve shown more style, sophistication and grace
Instead of acting in haste
To lay our relationship to waste
A minimalist approach via a satellite in space
There must be better ways to disconnect
To leave the ranks and defect
To make someone feel they’re a reject
But you dumped me by text

Though we had two whole years
Your parting words didn’t hit my ears
Only my phone
And on our anniversary’s eve
I couldn’t believe 
You’d contemplate that
I smashed my mobile to smithereens with a baseball bat
I melted your DVDs
I trashed your flat
Sat on your favourite hat
I kicked your cat
You’re clearly never gonna be a diplomat
‘Cause you texted my O2
To tell me we were both through
To tell me that you didn’t want to continue
You said it was the post-modern thing that people now do
I thought women were the gentler sex 
Till you put the dis in disrespect
Till you dumped me by text

Do you have an obsession
With keypad depression
A surrogate channel for your aggression
An outlet for your tension
Why yesterday did you fail to mention
You’d be sending me those two words?
And that might make me feel a wee bit perturbed
Turn my life into a turd
Leave me a total wreck
Whose coffin you gonna knock nails in next?
You could have just swung an axe towards my neck
But you dumped me by text

Your choices were
1 – call him on the phone
2 – write him a note 
3 – go see him at home 
It was a multiple choice 
You pick what’s best
But there was no option 4 - dump him by text

Well they say people are losing the art of conversation
But you’re hardly helping the situation
By splitting us up like this
A few prods of your finger
And a flick of the wrist
You burst my bubble like you’d burst a cyst
I didn’t even get a goodbye kiss

You and me simply ended
When these six letters were sended:
U
R

D
M
P
D

Why thank you darling for your
T
X
T

Ok you’re great 
At using technology
But so crap 
At using to psychology

I'm not Superman

I'm not Superman
Though you think I am
I'm not the one to get you out of a jam
The t-shirt you see upon my torso
Displaying that s-shaped red and yellow logo
Is something I dress in for fashion and fun
I'm not the guy who can fly from the planet with the red sun
I'm not Superman

I'm just a geeky superhero fan
Who makes a living writing rhyming verse
I'm not the guardian of the galaxy
Or protector of the universe
I come from North East London
Not from outer space
I save Superman comics not the human race
Want the real Man of Steel? You're looking in the wrong place
Don't you know it
I may be super poet
But I'm not Superman

It's a case of mistaken identity
Batman and The Flash aren't friends with me
Lex Luthor isn't my enemy
He's not plotting to destroy me with an evil master plan
Why?
Because I'm not Superman

I've no super speed
No x-ray vision
I've not appeared in movies
Or on television
I've no super strength
No telescopic sight
No special reflexes
No power of flight
And I'm not allergic to green Kryptonite
I'm honestly not that super-type

Don't be fooled if you're staring
At the famous top I'm wearing
Sorry to disappoint you but please understand
I'm not, never have been and never will be...
Superman!

Poetry Perfected

A fine wine is poetry bottled
Beef dumplings are poetry stewed
Cool spring water is poetry pure and unspoilt
Jasmine tea is poetry gently brewed

BLT is poetry sandwiched
Blue Stilton is poetry matured very old
Fluffed scrambled eggs are poetry microwaved
Vanilla ice cream is poetry cold

French bread is poetry served straight from the oven
Buttered new potatoes are poetry boiled
Fresh garlic is poetry mushed and crushed
Dark chocolate is poetry unfoiled

English apples are poetry crunched
Barbecued burgers are poetry bapped
Real Italian cappuccino is poetry frothed
(Fast food isn't poetry it's just gangsta rap)

Scotch salmon is poetry smoked
Hot Welsh rarebit is poetry on toast
Red cherries and strawberries are poetry ripened
But poetry perfected is Mum's Sunday roast

Malcolm X

 
 
Malcolm X
Malcolm X
Malcolm X
Malcolm X
Did they think you were
Illiterate
When you used to sign your cheques?

006

James Bond, James Bond
I wanna be your sidekick
I wanna play with your gadgets
Learn your hi-tech tricks
I'll get you out of a fix
Star in one of your flix
Drive your sports car like it’s a Scalectrix

You 007 me 006
I’ll be your sidekick
James Bond

I’ll be your number two
Introduce me to M and Q
Miss Moneypenny and the MI6 crew
Save the world is what we’ll do
From evil Doctor Megalomaniac
We'll stop him in his tracks
We’ll dodge the flak
When the enemy attack
I’ll watch your back
I’ll get the knack
I’ll support your act
We’ll make a pact
You’re not a man in a mac
Like a common-all-garden private dick

You 007 me 006
I’ll be your sidekick
James Bond

We’ll be a dream team
Like chocolate sprinkles and vanilla ice cream
Destroy villains’ plots and schemes
Though the bullets hail
We'll fight not fail
We'll put them in jail
Refuse the bail
Live to tell the tale
Then spend some time in Casino Royale
And once we’ve saved the world
I’ll fall in love with a beautiful Bond girl
Take my pick
Of the grooviest chicks

You 007 me 006
I’ll be your sidekick
James Bond