I met a boy in Central Perk,
hiding himself from the Xmas cold.
He entered and called the clerk,
and gave him a Ramones jacket to hold.
I was chosen as his listener of the day,
he said so many rubbish I wanted to explode,
he said he was coming back from UK,
he showed me his picture at Abbey Road.
He said he wrote a pocket novel
about a boy who never grows old,
he said it's autobiographical,
it's available on his site to download.
The novel was entitled Pop Dreams,
but, hold on, it wasn't what it seems.
Well, I didn't even get what it means...
Then I spoiled: in the end Peter Pan wins!
He took as an insult what I said,
he danced Thriller and said he was bad.
Calm down, little prince, don't get mad,
there's no reason to lose your head.
He said ok, but adviced me to take care,
he was so dangerous, he was a millionaire.
Then he started to talk about his last affair,
a mixed up fusion of Hannah Montana and Cher.
He said he has a Madonna's babydoll,
and rare baseball cards, also of football,
and a famous artwork of Andy Warhol,
he said he has it all exposed on his wall.
He made me sick with his pop culture,
I left the café looking for some cure.
He kept shouting he was young and pure,
he said I was over, he was this world's future.