The Crunked and Slammin’ Sonnets of Rocker Tommy Lee

By: Ethan Anderson

Sure, you know and love him as the aging bad-boy drummer of Motley Crue, the on-again off-again hubby of Pamela Anderson, and the almost-every-week defendant on Celebrity Justice, but the oft-tattooed rocker Tommy Lee is so much more — he’s a poet, too.

So without further ado, the bodacious words of Tommy Lee…

Molten Metal Sonnet

Again I’ve gone and wrecked the Escalade;

both bags deployed to stop my drug-drenched dreams

of Inspiration, that muse whose bangin’ bod

evades my famous grasp. Despite the reams

of righteous loot from multirecord deals,

prodigious backstage lines of pulchritude

bedecked in next to nothing, gold and squeals

of adulation, something’s missing, dude.

If I could truly rock through words alone

like Auden, Keats, Metallica or Korn,

I’d fly my jet to Monaco and hone

my craft, with breaks for baccarat and porn.

Alas, I lie beneath the teeming stars

and call my agent, crashing words like cars.

Vampire Sorority Girl

It’s not the way you rushed that freshman boy

and ripped his heart out (although GOD, that ruled),

or how you shocked the Theta Chi’s and spoiled

their bakesale fun (of course, you did the school

a favor). Deans will never understand

precisely why you tear them limb from limb,

but I do. Let me hold your icy hand

as we depart this bloody awful gym,

forget the pep squad sucked, and concentrate

on why you slay me. Deathly hot and sleek,

your evil schoolgirl skirts eviscerate

my will to live, your pallor makes me weak.

How this sophomore longs to feel your heart

not beating. Bite me now, and never part.

(Editor’s note: This next work features a brief but daring departure from self-absorption by Lee, as he dons the guise of an astrophysicist — several, actually — and then carries them into familiar territory, a strip club. And so we rock onward.)

Super String Theory!

We’re only telling you because we’re ripped

and also, Amber, when you dance, we feel

the thrilling vagaries of space are stripped

of mystery. Clad in curves and time, you steal

the hearts of Nobel astrophysicists

like us, the lonely nine who know the math

behind a theory panting fortune kissed

and wed too soon. Forget the garden path —

the bottom line? We made it up, us guys

around this table. Superstrings confound

all proof, dimensions tease and feign surprise;

our figures envy yours, so smoothly sound.

The universe is kind — unless we’re wrong

about our guess, you’re on for one more song?

Rebel Nonsonnet 27:

My Hot Erotica

Your rack’s a rockin’ revelation, causing heart attacks,

your can’s a planet of its own, the epi-tome of back,

your gams are slammin’ slender missiles blowing up those sandals,

your hips and curves have dips that pervs in dreams could never handle,

your midriff rips my brain in two, your arms destroy the rest,

your neck alone could launch the ships to crush that Helen test,

your eyes make supermodels cry, your nose blows waifs away,

your ears are sexy satellites, your mouth’s a passion play —

so lose the tube top, Daisy Dukes and discount Sauvignon,

and smack those lips with Bonne Bell. C’mon, let’s git it on.


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