Byrne

How can I describe "Byrne," a book by Burgess / (Anthony)? Putative novel, his last (O sorrow!). / 'S about one Michael Byrne, a "defective lecherous / Dreamer," all in ottava rima, (borrowed / From Ariosto), but which, to be sure, here is / Livelier and more fun than a carload / Of television sitcoms, no matter they / Be on Sunday, Wednesday or Saturday. / More Rabelaisian and Rabelais, / Out-Byrons Byron's endless long "Don Juan," / Satire, outrageous rhymes, in many ways / Better than Happy Hour, a ten-cent brew one / Downs; a treat for e'en those who're too laz- / Y or wary of poetic doin'. / Relax, sit back, you've got a lot to learn / From this wild poetic novel 'titled "Byrne." / "Why choose this agony of versifying / Instead of tapping journalistic prose?" / Burgess asks, but we know he's simply trying / To have some fun, which, as everybody knows, / 'S not easy in this oft PC-ifying / World where everything--and nothing--goes. / Burgess shows that poetry can be fun, / Hilariously accessible to everyone. / Well p'rhaps not everyone. Halfway through he / Briefly changes to a different scheme, / A loftier prosody, more chewy, / Used by dreary Spenser in "Fairie Queene" / (Which we all suffered through in academe). / Meanwhile Tim and Tom appear, reprehend / Vanished pater, etcetera. I deem / "Byrne" versifying fun, it recommend. / It's one of those, you hate to see it end. ---James Hursey