Lady Gaga pours herself another glass of Daddy’s girl, the house wine in Cafe Riche. On a wall there’s a pink hearted Romeo and a bitch is a bitch. I’m an anonymous poet, famous in heaven, dripping in serenity when I sit in the park. Lady Gaga might be a singer with a ring on her finger but all I ever learnt about love is it brings you to your knees. How many songs does a singer have in their head, how many poems does a poet keep in his heart? Lady Gaga hid behind a thousand masks. Behind a Steinway and Sons piano, she was like a deer in the headlights. I could never get close to the truth, I needed a doctor, I got Doc Marten boots. Now she’s all in leather on the New York streets and the statue of serendipity welcomes her. I had to protect my heart because all the love I’ve ever known is a one way Street. There was no respect for me as an artist. Let her live in her doll house and sing for her dollars while I cry on Gods shoulder. I guess I couldn’t tell the difference between being inspired by someone and desiring someone. She’s a mixture of good music and bad dreams. She sings, I sway, strumming my guitar like the body of a woman in my arms. She’s like a best kept secret, like a sweetheart, like a silhouette and a streetlight. Who is the minister of mayhem that I saw on a kid’s drawing, what inspired her latest album? The lessons of a famous woman. Princess Diana was kind and you can’t kill kindness. There was light at the end of that tunnel in Paris.