(Of the nature of the overall Pagliad, the art and conduct of this poem hath indeed been informed by this Molly Ivins essay, so don't go linkingeth it in the comments like you are the first fuckingeth one to read it, forsoothface.)
A POEM. In a Certain Meter.
Entitled, "Camille Paglia answers a call from Time magazine."
As I meditate, writing my memoirs,
I consult my cat, old wise Dr. Paws:
"And then we rocked out to the Rolling Stones...
Some Dionysius shit... GO GET THE PHONE!"
Holy smokes, I guess this gal ain't lost it --
I have canned crap that I can deposit
ON TIME MAGAZINE HA HA HA (cough fit)
Great news brands, magazines and newspapers,
Oft innovate like clueless Don Drapers:
"Oh this was cutting edge in 1970,
So kids today will dig it, like, virally. "
But who ought puzzle over the dimwit clot
At Time magazine -- just GIVE ME a spot!
Camille Paglia! Why, MY tired rap
Makes Madonna sigh, "like I give a crap."
So I open with a striking keenness:
A tycoon once surely had a great big penis.
Capitalism gave chicks labor-saving machines:
After a day at the factory, you LIVED your dreams!
Work, scrub, toil, clean! bear a child by 17!
It's no fratboy's fault if you're made unclean!
Screw all the buzzkill "feminist" sex prudes,
Who invented "date rape" to bum out dudes!
The worst thing ever to hinder knowledge
Is for girls to not get raped in college --
Wait... I think I just got myself confused --
Could you send the check now? Uh... Egyptian Nudes...?
Sarah Palin! Hillary! Apollo! Strings!
Please go read those distracting things!
Kindly note, though: I'm no complete moron.
Otherwise, how could I ever satisfy Salon?
Duh.
(In 2014, WHISKEY FIRE will increasingly be composed in verse.)