(instrumental opening)

Hello, Gaga, my old friend.
I'm come to mock you out again.
Because those red gloves you wore were creepy.
Mixed with silver dress, made me weepy.
And the vision
that was planted in my brain
gives me strain.

Because the gown's... not stylin'.

On restless carpet walked Scarlett
with a look you should not get.
With that green necklace, she's not a champ.
Left me feeling rather cold and damp.
Then my eyes were stabbed
by a crossword-puzzle-looking dress.
Miss Watts' mess.

Naomi's gown's... not stylin'.

And then a naked shoulder, yet
from dress of Patricia Arquette.
Black on bottom, white on top, sweeping.
Her designer must have been sleeping.
People making clothes
they never should have shared.
Still they dared.

And, no, the gown's... not stylin'.

"Fool!" said I to Miss Paltrow.
On her shoulder, giant rose.
White spots on gray dress, on eyes too hard
was worn by Marion Cotillard.
And my hopes
like silent movie fell...

and echoed, "The gown's... not stylin'."

And the people bowed and prayed
to the gold statue they made.
Anna Kendrick's salmon-pink ensemble
made her once again look very dumb.
And this guy said, "Dakota, your red dress
didn't need that shoulder-strap today!
In shade of gray!"

I chuckled,
"The gown's... not stylin'."

(instrumental close)