Oh Billy Collins, I cannot say
so much about those poems,
the ones you write,
the ones you read.
I know like Ogden Nash you make my wife and I laugh,
and you read your poems oh so well.
And while I try to be somewhat funny here,
I cannot but thank you (sincere!)—for your blend
of verse contemporary and sly little jokes.
But Oh Billy Collins, say no no no to what we’re told this day ,
that on national radio you lent praise to Che, refusing
to mention his unfunny words, his tyrannical heart,
presiding over murders with glee . . .
For we’ve purchased your books, and sent them to friends.
So in return maybe they
can send you a book too.
Your due, I suppose, and your duty, to read out to all
from the pages of Alvaro Vargas Llosa.
A book is too much, you think?
Very well, I punish then whatever in your political soul
that is that tedious, parochial, or just so hatefully lazy,
with obvious rhymes,
and a link .
