Someone gave me a celebrity compass. It's just like a regular compass But instead of pointing north It points in the direction of the nearest celebrity. A friend and I use it to find our way into a Zeppelin party. A bunch of ugly, Old groupies in stretch tube tops and satin hot pants are there. They let us know in no uncertain terms that they rule. But that doesn't stop Robert Plant, His blonde, tasseled curls covering his laughing face, From picking me up and carrying me around the room As if I were a human vacuum cleaner. I think he likes me. As he runs his strong hands up and down my teenage body, I see Jimmy Page staring at me from the corner of the room He sits cross-legged on a blood red, Oriental rug And looks at me with piercing, seductive and yes... Somewhat Satanic eyes. I think he likes me too. But which one? Which one? Which one? Which one? Which one? Which one? Which one will take me away to live with him in his castle in England?