Fed up with fame and fleeing undercover
In one of their United States or other,
Deep in that alien land’s back of beyond,
There lived, much better known even than Judas
And brought to life by Hollywood’s film studios,
Double-o-seven, the actor James Bond.
This mister’s superstardom
left nobody untouched;
The mania was so far gone
describing it’s too much.
Can you believe this fellow
was almost deified -
Fellini’s great Marcello
was next to him small fry.
His country pile was where he was residing
So nobody could pry him out of hiding -
And there he grew so bored and so depressed,
For fans would always meet him by his town place
And tear right off his person for their keepsakes
The final coats and trousers he possessed.
He lived like in a cage, then,
but worked hard on his films -
With other secret agents
he did just what he willed:
He’d take someone’s persona,
in ashtrays spend the night
Or win somebody over
while swinging on a light.
But then the comrades from our film foundation
Gave movie star James Bond an invitation
To shoot with us a joint-production flick.
He thought he’d meet our citizens disguised in
A blanket so they wouldn’t recognise him.
"In any case", he thought, "I’ll get it ripped."
But can you really blame him?
For when he left the States
The hippies all were shaving
their long hair from their pates;
His sweaters were grabbed off him,
his watch chomped from his wrist,
They even took slabs off from
his aircraft’s landing strip.
In Moscow now he goes down to the tarmac
And presses in the porter’s palm a greenback
While staying undercover on the move.
A jeep sped to the agent on the airfield;
They showed instead of documents a film reel
To say: "We’re your guys, how do you do?"
And jam-packed at arrivals
a huge crowd stood in wait -
A champ at shooting rifles
was passing through the gate.
His dead aim was unrivalled,
he only used one hand,
To girls he was an idol
and men were also fans.
Delighted his disguise was working so well
Bond took his blanket off inside the hotel,
But there despite his traits and how he talked
They said he was some kind of ragged con man
Who’d slipped inside pretending to be foreign
And claimed to be an agent of some sort.
When collared by the doorman
"O-seven me!" he cried;
"You want to make a call, then?
A token is required!"
Around his mouth and chin foam
was fizzing full of bile
And he sat by the window
in superhero style.
But then the studio’s gofers at the double
Came running up to clear up all the trouble
And changed pounds into roubles for the spy...
The cleaner cried out: "What a blimming twister!
So what if he’s some agent - we’ve a prince here
Who’s over from Somalia in room nine!"