To all Swine: our research division has unearthed two poems in manuscript, one ancient and one modern, on the subject of Swine Bowl. Both have been circulated among scholars, where they have generated some interest, and both are due to be included in the next edition of the Norton Anthology. We thought you might like an advance look.

A MILTONIC ODE (in sonnet form) on the occasion of Swyne Bowle. Penn'd to that esteemed orator, thespian, running back, and steadfast companion, Mr. R. Groabe, Esq., of the Temple Bar, by his devoted friend and humble servant, Mr. D. Dogge.

O Muse, forsake me not this holy hour
Nor leave me by my own weak light to shine;

For I must tell of mickle might and power,
And sing the praises of most noble SWYNE.

How can I sing of Hertze? Whose cunning sleight
Doth cozen sense, and mock the eye's report?

How praise Boome amply, whose prodigious might
(When rous'd from slumber) doth exalt our sport?

And yet I would of matter sing less rash,
The arched [2 sylls.] spiral through the welkin hurl'd,

The din of armored mammoths' bruising clash
That yearly doth electrify the world.

But as for thee, dear GROABE, words fail me quite.
Thy deeds are such as none can praise aright.

THE IMPRESARIO OF PORK I quote from Stanley Fish's comments in last February's Journal of Semiotic Bullshit (JSB xvii, 137): "We have here a recently discovered minor work by a heretofore totally obscure modern poet known only by the name Y. Walserb, thought to have frequented the salons of Upper West Side literati Mark and Anya Taylor, and evidently somewhat influenced by Yeats and Wallace Stevens. The poem is thought to have been composed somewhere in the vicinity of Columbia University around the time of student unrest there in the late 60's (though some scholars have placed it earlier). Despite this context, the author exhibits a striking lack of concern with any of the literary, aesthetic, or socio-political currents of its day, focusing instead on what seems, from a study of the poem's allusive techniques, to be some sort of annually repeated football game invested with mystical overtones."

An eager lutanist, devoid of dung,Seraphic, choirs to whirring monorails
In noble accent: "Lord of lumbar shape,
Accept these dull arpeggios of praise.
In ribald dreams we hear thy prickly voice
Whispering ancient pineapples of hymns.
And must we sheathe once more in cloaks of gold
The stiffened lumber of a hoary year?
Our gizzards are defunct. O Lord of lymph,
Be with us on this day of supple joint."
The sky sits dumb. Out on that grizzled turf,
A ghostly huddle bursts into taut wings.
Barked signals, icy hieroglyphs of brisk
And bloody action crack the bluish air.
What pinioned eagle lies beneath that horde
Where Swine expertly wallow? On that plain,The broken desert-heap of tackled forms.