1
We promised at the end of
Canto Two
Resumption (following a
short digression)
Of Cheney’s case, why
politicians do
The things they do, their
powerful obsession
With power, fragrant
flower toxic to
A senator (in or out of
session),
A president (or vice, to
whom we’ll soon
Return), and others
swimming that lagoon.
2
But first we here announce
a bit of news:
We wrote in Canto Two till
we had reached
Our quota; stanza room
made for our use
Was limited to five;
before we breached
Our number, we saw fit,
lest we abuse
This rule, though leaving
like a whale beached
Upon a lonely strand our
subject’s fate,
To finish later, hurry not
but wait.
3
Some poet wrote (his name
escapes me now):
“Discretion is the better
part of valor”;
A coward’s words to some,
but disallow,
For just a moment,
prejudice to color
Your judgment; hear us out
and we’ll show how
These words are wise and
not of craven pallor;
And this advice we give to
you for free—
Much less expensive than
your lawyer’s fee!
4
Quite often poets
contumaciously
(When limits real,
perceived, or otherwise
Constrain their art) react
audaciously
Toward authority; we hear
their cries:
“You’ll not tell me!”
(and most fallaciously,
If truth be told), “I’ll
quit!” and “Damn your eyes!”
In days of old your poets
had some juice,
But things have changed
for all but Angelous.
5
These Angelous have
ruined (unawares,
I’ll add) the art of
poetry by dint
Of politics correct and
airy airs
Upholding nothing
weightier than lint,
And President Bill Clinton
(whose affairs
Of state outweighed
amours) gave the first hint
The day he first took
oath, and poets lost
When Bill chose Maya
(Kennedy chose Frost!).
6
“Good morning”? Are you
kidding me? What’s wrong
With Dove or Walcott? Or
even Bukowski
Ferchrissake! “Fuggedaboudit,”
my Long
Island friend would say,
“and here’s my house key,
Go take it easy, bub, go
write a song!
This poetry’s got you
uptight, there’s whisky
For that, no sense in
driving to distraction—
And over things for which
you’ll take no action!”
7
I hope that you’ll forgive
my diatribe
Against these poets,
presidents, and most
Of all these editors
who’ll take a bribe
In form of payment to the
journal’s host,
These publishers imploring
you subscribe
Or send your checks as
contest fees and boast
You’re in the running now
for publication
In literary rags across
the nation.
8
I think I’ve erred,
forgotten place and time
Again, negating purpose of
invention,
Which was describe how I
induced my rhyme
Extended be to eighty
lines, made mention
Of forty’s paltriness, and
how, to climb
The heights (true poets’
only true intention),
Instead of stanzas
numb’ring five, “So then,”
I said, “I must demand now
stanzas ten!”
9
To my surprise, he
acquiesced without
Ado, and, furthermore, he
offered tea
And bade me take a seat
and talked about
The News Lampoon,
his plans withal, how “we
Should work together
more,” my verse, his gout,
Domestic troubles
bothersome that he
Had fears would bring to
ruin all he’d worked
To build . . . and
husbandly duties he'd shirked.
10
Upon departure, promises
were made,
Their nature being too
personal here
To tell; besides, I expect
to be paid
By him whose promise I
swore to hold dear
As any made myself;
extortion played
No part in this, a point I
must make clear:
A poet’s words are all
that he possesses—
Integrity will clean up
all his messes.
And so here ends Canto the
Third,
but there'll be more. . . .
We have Byron's word!
Canto the Second
Canto the First
The News Lampoon--Twisted News, Humor & Satire