I have not yet heard the new, eponymous Liz Phair CD, but plan on rectifying that situation as soon as possible. A good friend of mine, however, has sent me a few e-mails and spent part of a phone conversation giving me his opinions about it. With that in mind, I have composed this morning the poem below (in free verse quatrains, and for those who think free verse is a lazy form of poetry, I refer you to Frances Mayes' "The Discovery of Poetry" [Frances was my mentor for San Francisco State University's M.A. in Creative Writing program; she went on to have at least two New York Times bestsellers, "Under the Tuscan Sun" and "Bella Tuscany," so success like that can really happen to people you know --- maybe even you!]) in all of its second-draft (only two words changed from the original) naïveté.

Oh, Liz . . . return to us,
the adoring cult fans
who adore your back catalog
as much as your backside.

Waste not your time
on trying to crack the Top 40,
for the 13-year-old girls
who decide that chart's results

Will never relate to you,
a worldy grown woman who sings
of oral gratification and your affinity for its inherent result,
As long as they have Avril Lavigne.

Lose the slick production
And market toward me again,
the only male fan, I believe, who
You would truly adore if you met him.