From the New Yorker, couple weeks ago. It's by Australian poet David Musgrave:
On the Inevitable Decline Into Mediocrity of the Popular Musician Who Attains a Comfortable Middle Age:
"O Sting, where is thy death?"
Have to admit, that brought a tear to my eye—who says poetry doesn't engage its readers on an emotional level anymore?
(Works just as well if you substitute "Bono" for "Sting", by the way)