‘Twas The Night Before Nobel

October 11, 2007 at 6:17 pm (2008 Elections, Academy Awards, Al Gore, An Inconvenient Truth, Blogroll, Climate Change, Draft Gore, Global Warming, journalism, media, Oscar, Politics, the press)

‘TWAS THE NIGHT BEFORE NOBEL
by Anonymous

‘Twas the night before Nobel, when all through the house

Not a liberal was stirring, not even my spouse;

The draft was grass-roots and built with great care,

In hopes that The Goreacle soon would be there;

The volunteers nestled all snug in their beds,

While visions of Iowa danced in their heads;

And mamma in her ‘kerchief, and I in my cap,

Had just settled down for a long autumn’s nap,

When out in the Netroots there arose such a clatter,

I sprang from the bed to see what was the matter.

Away to the browser I flew like a flash,

Tore down all the pop-ups and threw Salon cash.

The prize was awarded for scant Arctic snow,

In hopes that humanity still could say “whoa,”

When, what to my wondering eyes should appear,

But a miniature sleigh, and eight tiny reindeer,

With a kind and calm driver, so ready to cope,

I knew in a moment it must be our hope.

More rapid than eagles his coursers they came,

And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name;

“Now, Churchill! now, Roosevelt! now, Franklin! and Truman!

On, Washington! on Kennedy! on, Jefferson and Lincoln!

To the top of the Net! to the top of the polls!

Now dash away! dash away! dash away all!”

As dry leaves that before the wild hurricane fly,

When met with an obstacle, mount to the sky,

So up to the house-top the coursers they flew,

With a plan for the planet, and humanity too.

And then, in a twinkling, I heard on the roof

The prancing and pawing of each little hoof.

As I drew in my hand, and was turning around,

Down the chimney The Goreacle came with a bound.

He was dressed all in black, from his head to his foot,

And his clothes were all tarnished with Chris Matthews’ soot;

A bundle of hope he had flung on his back,

And he looked like a peddler just opening his pack.

His eyes — how they twinkled! his dimples how merry!

His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry!

His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow,

And the beard of his chin was no longer in tow;

The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth,

And the smoke it encircled his head like a wreath;

He had a kind face and a voice strong and bold,

That rang, when truth to power was told.

He was tall and broad, a right jolly old elf,

But I cried when I saw him, in spite of myself;

A wink of his eye and a twist of his head,

Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread;

He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,

And bypassed the press corps; mainly made up of jerks,

And casting his voice into powerful prose,

And giving a nod, up polls he rose;

He sprang to campaign, to Roy Neel gave a whistle,

And away they all flew like the down of a thistle.

But I heard him exclaim, ere he drove out of sight,

“Happy Nobel to all, and to all a good fight.”