PARODY Poem: THE OLD POET SPEAKS TO THE YOUNG WHORE, by Richard Collins

After Dave Smith’s “The Old Whore Speaks to the Young Poet”

This is the way we do it, see,
packaging poetry.
First you hang out at a university
and consume all the right texts,
like APR and AWP,
and snub your nose at the rest,
and soon you’ll be the academy.

The fact is, I’m ignoring your question
which is your first lesson.
Never give a damn for your audience;
I’m a famous poet,
when I read for a bunch of peons,
I get paid for it.
In fact, I’ve made it a science.

Which is more than I can say of her
who also somehow sits up here
Collecting her poetry check like a man
to my immediate left.
But then everyone’s to my left, I’m sure,
except perhaps Ezra Pound,
whom I try to mention whenever I can.

I’m a born and bred Virginian,
a Southern gentleman.
I never could be crass or rude,
or take a lady’s name in vain,
or eat cold cornbread out of the pan,
or say a simple-minded thang
unless, of course, I’m in the mood.

Finally, make friends, flatter your colleagues,
both the peevish and the prigs.
Someday you’ll want to anthologize them,
create a new canon,
which means putting aces up each other’s sleeves
against mere fashion,
an inside straight to the great tradition