As a poet who specializes in skewering the right-wing, he works with both a poetic and a hunting license. And yet, as a poet, there's something basically reputable about him, no matter how mean he is, that distinguishes him from the psychotic bloggers, obsessive conspiracy theorists and self-appointed prophets of extreme talk radio. Lump him in with other middle-world figures, polemicists like filmmaker Michael Moore and late-night comedians who reduce politicians to pure caricature.

I find that you can say a lot, so long as it rhymes," says Trillin, from New York. For instance: Looking to rhyme the last name of former New York Sen. Alfonse D'Amato, Trillin came up with "sleaze-bag obbligato."

"You can't say that in prose," says Trillin. Nor can you breezily call Elliott Abrams (the National Security Council member who pleaded guilty to two misdemeanor counts of misleading Congress during the Iran-contra scandal, and was later pardoned by George H.W. Bush) "a felon," or imply that the return to grace of John Poindexter (whose conviction on five felony charges after the same scandal was overturned) is a sign of the current administration's preference for criminals among its top ranks (High-level appointments now favor the guys / With rap sheets instead of CVs).

Trillin, 68, likes to call himself a "Deadline Poet," a title that emphasizes his essential poetic talent: speed. More bluntly put, he is a doggerelist, toiling in the service of the poor, maligned Left, countering by example its unmerited reputation for humorlessness.

Von Dreele's style, like his politics, contrasts sharply with Trillin's. Von Dreele, who is just shy of 80, belongs to the old guard of the National Review. He's a gracious relic of the magazine's good old days, when being conservative had less to do with attack-dog politics and religious fundamentalism, and was more about a wry pessimism when it came to the frailties of Man. When you talk to von Dreele, and read his verse, you imagine a world of blue blazers and crisply pressed khakis, a world where the sun hangs low over the golf course and darts of orange light glint on the surface of your glacially chilled martini.

The essence of a partisan worldview -- and we're all guilty -- is confidence about things that can't be proved: the motivations of other people, their psychological makeup, the dark truths about their lives for which there is as yet no smoking gun. These speculations are supported with a mix of facts, fantasy and the guiding power of our most basic, operating truths about the world.

It is the role of the Deadline Poet (and all the other denizens of the political middle-world) to articulate the simple thoughts widely held by half the polarized electorate -- e.g. Bush is a moron, Kerry is a snob -- yet can't be directly spoken in respectable journals. Coated with a sweet veneer of verbal virtuosity, these truths slip into the political bloodstream. The pleasure of the poet, and the reader, is seeing these mean little memes circulating freely, doing their damage, a leperous distilment poured into the porches of our ears.