Cameo Hundesser, Style Consultant to the Wicked

Who put the ‘hit’ in Hitler?
Who put the ‘star’ in Stalin?
Who made Ceasesceau’s grisly grimace
marginally less appalling?
Who put the razzmatazz and
razzle-dazzle in
Kim Jong-Il?
Who filled Mao Zedong’s tailors
with revolutionary zeal?
Who put Pol Pot’s patterned tops
in fashion pole position?
Who helped Nixon wear a tie
like he was on a mission?
Who promoted Park Chung Hee’s new
military chic?
Who made bijou Himmler dolls
the flavour of the week?
Who clinched General Pinochet
a contract with Lambrini?
Who squeezed Mussolini
into an
itsy-bitsy
teeny-weeny
yellow polka
dot bikini
then snapped him
slapped across the bonnet
of a jet-black Lamborghini?
Who made Franco’s nipple ring
a fashion lingua franca?
Who did Gary Glitter’s hair?
No, I’m asking.
Who did Gary Glitter’s hair?
He still looked like a wanker.
Who matched Mrs Thatcher’s
crotchless pants
and peephole bra?
Who waxed Trotsky’s ringpiece
whilst his boys dispatched the Tsar?
Who helped Jeffrey Dahmer
tour the Dordogne incognito?
Who made
Edward Teller look the Bomb
when he met Hirohito?
Who transformed Colonel Qadhafi
from a tanktop-wearing dickhead?
Why, twas
Cameo Hundesser,
Style Consultant
to the Wicked.

You won’t see
his work on Saville Row
but in a dead man’s eyes;
you won’t see it on the catwalks
but you’ll hear it in their lies;
‘cause when evil’s done up to the nines
it’s really no surprise –
from the lowliest transgressor
to the bloodthirsty oppressor,
if a cad’s a dapper dresser
he knows Cameo Hundesser,
and his fees are very reasonable
his price is very fair
every vanity is feasible
if you’ll just sign there…
and there…
Heaven knows the soul’s a trifle
when compared to wool and serge,
he’ll coordinate your rifle
if you really feel the urge,
if you’ve uprisings to stifle
then he’ll organise a purge,
you’ll look pretty
while each city
plays a funereal dirge.
You can chuck your dated scruples
if they’re clashing with your tie;
watch the crowd’s dilated pupils
when you execute a spy;
clad in taffeta and crinoline
you’ll shoot him through the thigh
with a pistol
made from crystal
and a twinkle in your eye.

Show your foes some trendy sass!
Don’t dress to kill –
dress to gas!
Raise a glass
and toast the virtuoso
who made landmine medallions oh-so-nowtastic,
who throttled babies with bib elastic,
who bottled rabies and called it:
‘Fury – the new fragrance from Cameo Hundesser.’
Now we’re all inducing an attack;
gurning, drooling juices and
turning puce is the new black.
His career’s a manifesto;
Uncle Cameo knows best, so
evildoers of the future take heed!
Cos no one fears a tyrant dressed in tweed.