nobody does it quite like you do

Not that we were talking about him or anything, but I am pretty fond of Catullus. This is not a poem by Catullus.

A landslide in Bolivia,
the marriage of two chimps in a zoo in California,
snow predicted for late in the afternoon,
and on the book review page, a new translation of Catullus.

Aulelius, you cheap bastard . . .
Maximus, your ass stinks from sitting all day . . .
Pontibus, who was that plump whore you brought to
the banquet . . . ?

Is there anyone who does not admire the forthright way
in which his poems begin
and, of course, the lively gossip that follows,
the acrid smoke of contumely
rising from the blown-out candles of the past?

No room for the daffodil here,
or the afternoon shadow of a column,
not when everyone at last night's party much be demeaned.

Who has time for sunlight falling on the city
when Capellus needs to be told he is a shitty host
and Ameana reminded that she is one horrid bitch?

Nobody does it quite like you do, Catullus,
you insulting, foulmouthed cocksucker,
and I am thrilled to hear that once again
your words have been ferried to the shores of English,
you mean-spirited pain in everyone's ass.

Without you, Catullus,
a pedestal in the drafty hall of the greats
would be missing its white marble bust.

And so I hail you, Catullus,
across the wide, open waters of literature,
you nasty motherfucker, you flaming Roman prick.

~Billy Collins, "The News Today", 2007.