He has a very mottled face, and it is not congenital.
His skin with grafts is full; when haberdashed like "Pepper" general,
He apes the Fab Four. He has apes and animals quite affable.
He likes to give boys' shafts a pull; with all his toys, he's laughable.

To kids he gives a beverage that for their age ain't quaffable,
He shows them pics of dicks--and sometimes chicks--that are quite graphical.
So, many times the mothers and dads of his victims have brought suit.
He bought them off; some sought a lot because they thought he had got loot.

Although he wed, he's never bedded wife or any gal, because
He'd rather press, caress, and fress nests fledged with pre-men pals' peach fuzz.
He likes 'em short and tractable, mute like Trappists, and malleable,
He's short of cash, new songs are crap, his rap's no longer valuable.

He blew some wealth in stealthy sessions with expensive skin-care docs,
He blew his nose and it fell off; they epoxied it, in their smocks.
He's called the "king of pop," a moniker that's not eponymous,
Since he got off on getting off he's got nearly anonymous.

He's germaphobic; "Anaerobic be; wear masks; don't cough on these,"
He tells the lads as swell the nads; propelled on pads, they drop on knees.
He lives in figments of fantasy, and pigments his skin adorn,
It's bleached and breached and leached; each week he seeks a peek at kinderporn.

He went to court not dressed in shorts but in a PJ uniform.
When he did sport, one was so short, a standing BJ blew a storm.
The torts he vanquished; now he's languished, splashing rouge, scents--bay, Chanel--
Onto his skin that's been worn thin and tinged in hues of Béchamel.

They say his pokes have made him broke and fortunes are unravelin',
He'll try a place to buy more face, so to Dubai he's travelin'.
Is he berserk, they wonder? Should he be in burkha? Wary that
Some young man might make a mistake, take the gloved hand and carry that.

The way he's dressed sometimes, you'd guess he should be in a nunnery,
His face is fixed, but did docs' tricks extend to mixing plumbery?
Thrilled donors milked their boners, and their jizzage made him paterly,
His skin tone's like a ginned crone's visage made, with makeup, materly.

To lift his lips and nip the tip of nose, docs got trenchery,
They dug and drugged and tugged his mug until he's nearly gender-free.
In Spain they speculate on whether he's sin or con genitals.
He has moved to white from mocha, and that is not congenital.