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What bothers me most about Eisenberg's post
Is the blatant inference that every occurrence
Of political bent in a book with endurance
Redeems it as roast or condemns it as toast
When in fact execution is lit's absolution,
As are narrative pull and hilarity's hull:
In ideas divorced from the views there endorsed.
I've read right leftist writers whose style proved them blighters
And left-out conservs whose MacGuffin-fests swerved
Into grace so apparent their worth is inherent.
One can't eschew merit like some tract-spewing ferret --
Dante's strength's in the writing, not enemy citing.
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