Poem sent in
by David Abbot

POGO AND BUSH IN THE TIME OF POE AND JANE AUSTEN

Once upon a december dreary, while I pondered, half-drunk and weary
through the shelves of Barnes and Noble, over much quaint and curious lore
seeking a book that wouldn't bore,
a literary blossom unknown to me
when at my mind there came this sound
like a bipedal marsupial’s foot tapping the ground
or gently rapping, rapping at my noggin's gate.
'Tis but some cheap romance novel that I would hate,' I muttered,
'tapping at my mental door - only this, and nothing more.' 

Ah, distinctly I remember, it was that rainy, dismal December,
and each vapid volume wrought its unholy ghost upon my eye;
eagerly I wished the morrow- vainly had I sought to borrow
from those books, surcease of sorrow-
or at least another s'more from the Starbucks
at the other end of the store-
for only a few measy bucks I could enjoy
the mushy, brownish goo that decorates the cookies- oo!
that dull my wit and make me cry, ‘Oh, I love thee, yes I do,’
Yet, nameless here, forevermore. 

Ah, the silken, sad, uncertain snappings of those thinnest of paper wrappings
thrilled me- filled me with fantastic terrors oft felt before
of scarfing s'mores with that dreamy barista Lenore;
so that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating,
'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my cranial door -
some late visitor entreating entrance to my mental moor
seeking to take advantage of the intelligentsia poor -
only this, and nothing more.' 

Yet, with each bite of scrumptious s'more my soul grew stronger;
hesitating then no longer,
'Sir,' said I, 'or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
for I was intellectually napping when so gently you came rapping,
when so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my cranial door,
that I scarcely was sure I heard you' -
here I clambered upon the highest shelf from the floor;
romance novels there, and nothing more. 

Desperate those manly arms and bosoms heaving,
'til I feared I, too, would soon be heaving,
long I stood there, wondering, fearing,
doubting, dreaming dreams of trying not to hurl
not in front of Lenore, the barista girl
no mortal ever dared so to dream before
but with hands clapped firmly o’er my mouth,
the deafening literary silence was unbroken,
and the bookshelves gave, themselves, no token,
and the only word that was spoken
was the whispered word, "S'more!"
This I whispered, and barista Lenore
echoed back the word, "S'more?"
Merely this, and nothing more. 

Back into the bookstore turning, my soul-
no, perhaps my love handles burning
yet soon I heard a tapping, somewhat louder than before
'Surely,' said I, 'surely that is something at my mental lettuce
let us see then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore; -
'Tis the s'more, and nothing more!'
 
Open here I flung the suspect book, when, with many a jiggle and a flutter,
looking like someone who's had too much butter,
a literary blossom, oh indeed, a bipedal possum with no grits,
upon the pages with great speed that I viewed now sits
then up hops ol' Pogo, bare feet flapping
like some raven a'tapping, tapping 
at my mental bulwark sturdy,
'Tis a brain-chemistry hurdy gurdy,’ said I -
‘only this and nothing more,'
and yet ol' Pogo, with just a touch of art
perched upon Bush's biography and cut a sonorous fart.
Perched, and farted, nothing more.
Quoth ol' Pogo, `Bush, nevermore.' 

Much I marvelled this swampy denison to hear discourse so plain,
and his action deep meaning, not to mention a skid-mark stain-
great relevancy bore; for we cannot help agreeing
that no living human being
Ever yet was blessed with seeing
ol' Pogo's butt upon George Bush's face -
Yea, ol' Pogo's butt upon moronic Bush in the Barnes and Noble store,
with such a comment as “Bush, nevermore.” 

But ol' Pogo, sitting solo on that vapid photo, spoke only
those two words, as if his soul in those two words he did outpour.
Nothing further then he uttered – even his toe-jam did not flutter -
Till I scarcely more than muttered, `Other friends have farted on Bush before -
On the morrow 'ol Pogo will leave us, as our hopes have flown before.'
But quoth ol' Pogo, `Nevermore. Bush, nevermore.' 

And the following morn, ol' Pogo
never flitting, still is there, still is sitting,
remaining artful and quite fartful
on the pallid pic of Bush
on the bookcase by the door
of Barnes and Noble, by the door;
And his eyes have all the seeming of a possum who is dreaming,
of a Bushless world and that is seemly- possum, true anon. 

And the Hummer headlights through the window streaming
throw ol’ Pogo’s shadow on the floor;
as he farts on g.w. forevermore,
and repeats his one refrain, 'Bush, nevermore.' 

And so I turn to the bitter-sweet Lenore
to ask her for another s'more
but seeming not to hear my plea,
she rather quoth, 'Who's that I see-
the flatulent possum on the bookshelf by the door,
intoning the phrase, “Bush, nevermore.”' 

'Why that possum, ‘pon my oath'
said I, with more than a little surprise,
'seems destiny itself, one might surmise
rubbing bush with his poignant, furry tush
having taken the form of ol' Pogo, who- unlike Bush,
speaks words we find that we can trust:
"I have met the enemy, and he is us." 

Penned late at night, so late
by David Abbot, in 2008

When his time in the White House is through,
Bush to the south
to the south will go.
Yet further south than Texas
this I know
further south and hotter, too.