[Erik Olson]

To the Patron (Dean)

Art has the power to praise or murder you:
a comic strides, a lion on pay-per-view,
fires rich material since poorly fired—
his snaps are killing you, your boot inspired.
Some bloom to geniuses when cushions burst;
some blest in softest foliage lose thirst.
Strange logic, does it work? You shook the bays,
poets' new quarrels rival Shakespeare plays;
one must find silly or abysmal wrongs,
drink satire up or stream out protest songs.
They are to you, this anti-Chester club,
as Milton was no less to Bezelbub.
Bravo! I know why you refuse to speak,
your secret tactics work not if they leak.
d