Another poem for MJ

The King of Pop, that was his name,
Singing and dancing was his game,
A victim of his global fame,
They say he shagged kids? Never mind, what a shame.

His head was always filled with troubles,
He took them out on poor old Bubbles,
And through his life, his major dramas,
Were always down to his cursed llamas.

So Neverland's gates now stand locked tight,
As vigils gather through the night,
His fans will weep behind the railings,
But never admit the poor man's failings.

For Jacko was no saint, you see,
His attitude just sickened me,
For all that money, all that gold,
Was living proof of the soul he sold.