In the spirit of Jonathan Swift, a "Modest Proposal" for dealing with troublesome paparazzi
Cameras flash, mike booms swing Cell phones', pagers' piercing ring Chase us through the city streets Shouted questions, pounding feet Just because we are a Name Must this be the price of fame? Paparazzi, hear our cry: HOW MANY OF YOU CAN WE MAKE DIE? You will not leave us alone We should call on Sly Stallone You don't listen to our pleas Sean Penn had the right idea We'll see if your cameras float Microphones shove down your throats Blow your choppers from the sky HOW MANY OF YOU CAN WE MAKE DIE? You have camped out on our lawn All our flowers and grass are gone We'll send vengeance from the trees Loose on you a swarm of bees Please respect our privacy Just get off our property! Or we'll burn your tabloids high HOW MANY OF YOU CAN WE MAKE DIE? Cameras flash, mike booms swing Cell phones', pagers' piercing ring Chase us through the city streets Shouted questions, pounding feet Just because we are a Name Must this be the price of fame? Paparazzi, hear our cry: HOW MANY OF YOU CAN WE MAKE DIE?