The Rummy

Adapted from Edgar Allen Poe's the Raven by Insolublog.









Once upon a midnight dreary, as Fox News punditry grew weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of crap from guys like Gore,
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a snapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at the House chamber door.
`'Tis some exit polls,' I muttered, `tapping at my House chamber door -
Only this, and nothing more.'

Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak November,
And each separate dying member wrought his candidacy upon the floor.
Eagerly I wished the morrow; - vainly I had sought to borrow
From my blog surcease of sorrow - sorrow for the lost Terror War -
And news of the rare and radiant maiden of Democracy so Pure.
It was too late for this and more.

And the silken sad uncertain rustling of every ballot booth curtain
Thrilled me - filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating
`'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my House chamber door -
Some late visitor entreating entrance at my Senate floor -
This it is, and nothing more,'

Presently my soul grew stronger; the keystrokes beating longer,
To the cathode and its theatre players I implore;
But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,
And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my Senate floor,
That I scarce wanted to admit the ugly electoral downpour; -
Darkness there, and nothing more.

Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no conservative patriot ever dared to dream before
But the silence was unbroken, and the darkness was clearly spoken,
And the only words there spoken were, `Hark! They have the floor!'
Now to seize the Senate all they need is four.
Merely this and nothing more.

Post election the power is turning, all my soul within me burning,
Soon again I heard another snapping somewhat louder than before.
`Surely,' said I, `surely that is something to upset the trend for sure.
Let me see then, what there is, in this recent loud uproar -
Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore; -
'Tis scalp. they crave for more!'

The cameras snapped their shutters, with many a flirt and flutter,
In there stepped a stately Rummy of the saintly days of yore.
Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;
But, with mien of lord or lady, perched at the podium on the press room floor -
Perched upon the tense morass of a political claymore -
Perched, and spoke, and grew heartsore.

Then this gray old bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,
`Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou,' I said, `art sure no craven.
Ghastly grim and ancient Rummy wandering from the press room floor -
Tell me what thy lordly plan is on Iran's Plutonium score!'
Quoth the Rummy, `Nevermore.'

The press marveled at this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,
Though its answer little meaning - little relevancy to their rancor;
For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
Could feel blessed with the act seeing this bird in a state of fleeing
As the weak flow into being at the House chamber door,
They grimace a ghoulish `Nevermore.'

But the Rummy, perched on the podium, spoke so lonely,
That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.
Nothing further then he uttered - not a feather then he fluttered -
Till I scarcely more than muttered `Other friends have flown before -
On the morrow will he leave me, as my hopes have flown before.'
Then the old bird said, `Nevermore.'

Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
`Doubtless,' said I, `what it utters is its only stock and store,
Caught from his unhappy master whom unmerciful disaster
Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore -
Till the dirges of his hope that melancholy burden bore
Of "Never-nevermore."'

But the Rummy still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling,
Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of the screen and his outpour;
Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to hyperlinking
Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore -
What this grim, ungainly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore
Meant in croaking `Nevermore.'

This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my blogger's core;
This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining
On the cushion's velvet lining that the HP notebook glowed o'er,
But whose velvet violet lining with the HP notebook glowing o'er,
She shall keypress, ah, nevermore!

Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an CNN censor
Spun by reporters whose notebooks tinkled on the press room floor.
`Wretch,' they cried, `thy God hath lent thee - by these angels he has sent thee
Respite - respite and nepenthe from thy memories of the Iraqi War!
Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe, and forget this lost Iraqi War!'
Quoth the Rummy, `Nevermore.'

`Prophet!' said they, `thing of evil! - prophet still, if bird or devil! -
Whether Rove sent, or whether Bush tossed thee here ashore,
Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted -
On this home by terror haunted - tell me truly, I implore -
Are there - are there bombs in Gilead? - tell me - tell me, I implore!'
Quoth the Rummy, `Nevermore.'

`Prophet!' said they, `thing of evil! - prophet still, if bird or devil!
By that Heaven that bends above them - by that God that they abhor -
Please tell this soul with sorrow in hand, what is beyond the distant sand,
Tell me what thy lordly plan is on what Iran has in store,
For the rare and radiant maiden of Democracy so Pure.
Quoth the Rummy, `Nevermore.'

`Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!' They shrieked upstarting -
`Get thee back into the tempest and let Iran's Plutonium soar!'
Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!
Leave our arrogance unbroken! - quit the podium upon our floor!
Take thy beak from out our heart, and take thy form right out the door!'
Quoth the Rummy, `Nevermore.'

And the Rummy, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the blogger pages fitting of the memory of his knitting;
And his eyes have all the seeming of a warhorse still deftly dreaming,
And the lamp-light o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
And his soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
Shall be lifted - nevermore!




Goodbye old Bird.









Dread Pundit Bluto, Mensa Barbie,Fmragtops,Point Five