[If I remember correctly, what follows represents the one "A" I received in the legendary George Fayen's English seminar, my sophomore year.* We had been reading Pope.]
TO THE LATE DAN WHITE
SIR,
It will be plain to even the most casual Eye—your Discerning one, I should think, especially—that the Piece following is from a Perspective flaw'd, bias'd, and uninform'd, its Author gazing back across Oceans fo Time, Space, and Opinion lost, the Ideals for which you struggl'd in his Advanc'd Year debas'd, misunderstood, and your final End known by few and mourned, perhaps, by fewer still.
If somehow this Twinkiad meet your afterworldly (and Discerning) Eye, understand that said Author work'd to repair the vericidal Fault of his own Bias and struggl'd to fill the gaping Void of Ignorance, and Time gone by. The White of the poem represents not You, dear Sir, nor the Memory of You, nor the Idea nor the Significance of your all-too-unfairly-judg'd Actions—instead this White is merely a denizen of barbaric Fiction, a fleeting shadow of shadows' shadows, an allegory of allegories, a memory of having once remember'd memories, that fictive White itself Guided as it itself could not, by Deities, Angels, Daemons, and High Fructose Corn Syrup, to Deeds for which neither it itself nor still less you yours are in any way Responsible, save the emergence of its or thy own intentional claim (rightly made, if so you feel) for such possible Honors. In short, dear Sir, Names, Characters, Places, and Incidents either are the product of the Author's Imagination or are used Fictitiously, and any Resemblance to actual Persons, living or dead, Events, or Locales are entirely Coincidental.
Sir,
Your Most Obedient
Humble Servant.
[S. ROUND]
THE TWINKIAD
ARGUMENT
Of the Assassination in the year nineteen thousand one hundred seventy-eight of San Francisco Mayor George Moscone and Supervisor Harvey Milk by recently-resigned Supervisor Dan White, which great Crime begat the infamous "Twinkie Defense". Explanation for the absence of the Muse, who is washing her Hair. Expression of shock and horror at the unexpect'd Side-Effects of Twinkie and Kool-Aid ingestion on the Assassin. The Spirits who rule Junk Food and their Purpose. The hateful Speech of the San Francisco Police Officers Association and the Board of Realtors to White, upon the latter's resignation from the Board of Supervisors. White's unsuccessful attempt to quench his own Bigotry by eating Twinkies and drinking Kool-Aid. The resulting rage of the above-mentioned Spirits at their Gifts misus'd. The substitute Muse Edna's ill-tim'd departure, the poem's subsequent collapse, the arrival of the well-washed Muse, and the Author's unexpect'd and perhaps inappropriate proposal.
What bitter taste, what foulness rose from sweet,
What tragedy came oozing from a Treat,
I'd hop'd the Muse through me to you would send,
But since she's busy, we'll just use her Friend.
When birth'd from Shower springs our now-clean Muse,
Perhaps she won't condemn, should she peruse,
These muddled words, by Edna through me sung,
Of White, forc'd down Fate's ladder, rung by rung.
O, how, dear Edna, could the Creamy Filling
Of Golden Sponge Cake drive a man to Killing?
And sugar-sweetened soft drink mix provide
The evil Push toward Supervisorcide?
Was it the two per cent or less of salt
Which led dear White to bring Milk to a halt?
Ne'er fighting Flames, nor Crime, did Dan White find
Such fatal forces as (when he resign'd
From San Francisco Supervisorhood)
The Food he ate, which damn'd him where he stood;
Nor e'er in any San Francisco riot
Did White face Chaos like his broken Diet.
His meal was rul'd by Hostess®, who resides
In Fat, and Mono and Digylcerides,
Corn Syrup Solid, Eggs, Dextrose, and Corn.
From which a Crown was forg'd, to him adorn.
His unseen Troops with flaming spears patrol
With ever-open eyes man's Food and Soul,
Alive and eating, Adam's son looks for
His God and drink, while They above him soar.
Great Hostess®, and the mighty Kool-Aid® Tsar,
Observe your Diet close, where'er you are,
And should they view your Morals sinking South,
They'll steal it and your Food from out your Mouth,
While should you treat your Food with little care,
They'll turn it to a Crime and eat your prayer,
Which, aim'd toward Heav'n, ne'er will make it there.
When White departs from Mayor Moscone's court,
The Board of Realtors and Police retort,
You vow'd to make San Fran, San Fran again,
To bar our men from kissing other men,
Have you forgotten what we all agreed?
Foul Onan's bad enough with just his seed,
So he who spills another's should be strikèd!
(For what if we observe and learn we like it?)
You, White, the Hand of God will supplement
And give all San Fran's Gays shoes of cement
Whether our Mayor wants you to or not.
(God surely meant to do it, but forgot.)
White says, with narrow'd eyes, to Harvey Milk,
You, openly of Homosex'al ilk,
Are clearly one of San Fran's Deviates,
Incorrigibles, Radicals! he frets.
These words utter'd in silence, he his Hate
Decides to drown in soft Calcium Phosphate.
O tragedy! good White ingests with eats.
Though pure in motive, Murder here he meets.
With Twinkies he'd extinguish his cruel Fire,
Instead he rouses vengeful Hostess®' ire.
The Tsar of Kool-Aid® bellows, great Fist shaking:
The Calcium Phosphate's there to prevent caking!
He drinks to mend the fact that he is Heartless,
But I meant citric acid to give tartness,
Not some Redemption happy White can savor!
I offer only artificial flavor!
Says Hostess®, For his carelessness unswerving,
Ignoring that just one cake is one serving,
The forty grams and two to Man I gave
So clearly insufficient for this Knave,
For (as you said) ignoring Twinkies' cause
And using them to aid the Moral Laws,
To raise his Mind and not his Ch'lest'rol rate**
Is simply not a thing we tolerate.
Thus White, free, casts his will aside,
And swallows Twinkies and his moral pride.
Virtue and belch slip out from b'tween his lips,
His Fate, possessèd White has sealed—um—
Edna, no longer pleased (it seems) she has us,
Has ditch'd your Author, mid- sylleptic Chiasmus,
And now Mingus is crawling in one ear,
Forcing out the other any hope of maintaining Pope-ish couplets,
For lo! Muse! wet, in towel wrapp'd, appears,
Making it very difficult to write in meter that'll appease your ears—
If you could only see her—
Dear Muse, my verse abandon'd, and my rhyme,
With it th' entire Subject of White's Crime,
Maybe you and I could go out to a movie or something, some time?
* My grades then went into a bit of a nosedive when we started into
Wordsworth. To put it another way, then, this magnificent feast you see before you represents the
last of the petty cash.
** Cholesterol rate. I love it. Written like a true 20-year-old.
