I'd rather not be this unkind,
But Trillin put me in this bind.
I heard him, just, on NPR —
His iambs stretched a smidge too far.
Though some reviews have praised the man,
They surely could do better than
Poor imitations so bereft
Of supple meter, rhyme and heft.
From Anchor Books to Zondervan
Book publishing's run out its span,
So why consign a single tree
To reproduce such minstrelsy
As this? It's hackneyed, drear and trite,
And Trillin barely can recite.
His verse rolls weakly off his tongue —
Not rapped, nor slammed nor even sung.
Jon Stewart tittered at this drivel.
Would Northrup Frye have been so civil?
New Yorker, Nation, what are those?
Just places where they still spell prose
Complete with vowels and don't use thumbs
To type whatever nonsense comes.
So where's the market that demands
(In dollars, yen or Kruggerands)
Such arch flirtation with cliche
That no one's asked for anyway?
I can't pronounce myself a fan.
His deadpan humor lacks the pan.