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.