My Life as a Doggerelist, by CALVIN TRILLIN

I’m at my desk--not waiting for a muse

But for the Times, the Post, The Daily News.

For deadline poets, muses are much rarer

Than tuning in MacNeil and his friend Lehrer.

It’s they who, perched like ravens on my sill,

Deposit grist that’s needed for my mill.

I’m stuck. I’m blank. The dreaded deadline looms.

I feel my brain is suited for legumes.

I cruise around the dial, I turn the page

To see who might appear upon the stage

As players whom their countrymen salute,

And targets for my bag of rotten fruit.

The news presents a motley little band

That I observe, tomato in my hand:

The congressmen fine-tuned to every fax

That indicates the wishes of their PACs;

The White House staff, the President’s defenders,

All working late, and all in their suspenders;

The tasseled lobbyists, may God forgive us,

Who entertain with steaks washed down with

Chivas;

A President who always makes me feel

The last one was attacked with too much zeal;

A candidate who poses as our savior.

It helps if all are on their worst behavior.

The job of deadline poet is a calling

Dependent always on the most appalling

Behavior that our public figures show--

Supplies of which seem rarely to run low.

Rascality is what we need, plus greed

Overt enough to draw a blush from Tweed.

A fool is fine. A pompous fool’s sublime.

It also helps if they have names that rhyme.

From “Deadline Poet: My Life as a Doggerelist” by Calvin Trillin. (Farrar, Straus & Giroux: $18.) 1994 Reprinted by permission.