We'd call our friend a Tolkien in minuscule,
except that he sees himself as a Gandhi;
we'd give him credit, it's our usual rule,
but he tells such fine stories when he's randy.
The new millennium seems a total bust
but we look for a new tale by Delany,
filled with excitement, envy, and some lust,
deeply sociological, we'd say, not zany.
There's no embarrassment, we tell you meekly,
in having written poems on Making Light;
it won't get you into Publisher's Weekly,
but on your web-page it will look just right.
An odd occurrence, that is what you tell of,
when you found the first edition of a book
written, it turns out, by the great Asimov
behind the chair in your old reading nook.
We'd accommodate you in our hierarchy
since you'd otherwise be the ghost at the feast,
but, since this is a Dahlian polyarchy,
you'd have to become a deity at least.
A pharaoh you are not, of that we're certain,
Teresa's mocked you for your petty pains;
you retire in indignation past the curtain,
your tears come down as moderate spring rains.
It's fortunate that you aren't like The Donald
and injure reputations for a lark,
you'd have to deal then with good Jim Macdonald
and its ten to one that he'd put out your spark.