POGO AND BUSH IN THE TIME OF POE AND JANE AUSTENOnce 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 2008When 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.