The Love Song of J. Alfred Pennyworth*

Let us go then, you and I,
To the blogosphere spread out before our eye
with ten fingers tapping lightly keys;
Let us go, with a schiznit and a fuk’n,
to talk that sump’n sump’n
in dark recesses of the batcave
where a blog named Hose Monster we shall save.
Moxie attitudes leave us uninvited
blogger parties unenlightened
Times we wonder without admission
"A Super Bowl can the Raiders win?"

Fuk’n we shall go about
Writing of biznatch not the clear’st
Borrowing from Tony Pierce.

The comic books that kept our childhoods sane,
The comic characters our blogs mundane,
Exploring through daytime those motherless goats,
our mental masturbation our writing denotes.
Let Randy Rhoads let fall from grace,
a lick so sweet that one night’s taste
so much sweeter than goose juice
tasting better than thoughts obtuse.

And indeed we will one day take over
For the comic stories know no other,
than total domination and good vs. evil;
There will be time, there will be time
To prepare ourselves for bloggers we’ll meet;
There will be time to be fuk’n discreet,
And time for tapping lightly keys
by so we bring a world to knees;
Time for Ultrablognetic, time for Hose Monster,
And time yet for a fuk’n Saddam,
And to bitch slap your fuk’n mom,
Before meeting a site one man the lesser.

Writing of biznatch not the clear’st
Borrowing from Tony Pierce.

And indeed there will be time
To wonder, "How do the Clippers suck such ass?"
Time to bemoan that donkey’s past,
Writing of Kenny Roger’s Roasters --
(They will say: 'What is this schiznit?")
Through Glendale up through the bay area fair,
and from hills we watch football there --
(They will say: "I don’t get this schiznit!")
Do we dare
Disturb the blogosphere?
From our desks there is time
to develop meandering lines all will revere.

For we have known them all already, known the Orby:
Have known the Mad Pony, Louisiana, the Azarok,
we have read their thoughts that us do rok;
We know the people planning the blorgy
But so far away we must feel.
Must we be limited geographically?

And we have seen Setguards, Ham Fisted Theatrics --
have benefited from Sumo Pop,
We have traveled this journey together in tandem,
But the talent of these people, these antics,
Then how should we know them
When hiding behind monitors and laptop tops
Must we be limited electronically?

Have we known them all already, these invisible friends--
Meeshes that snowboarded into oblivion
(Our 3rd Legs dangled, waiting the end of intermission)
Is it talent, do we perform
Or are we outside the fuk’n norm?
Beyond our keyboards these friendship’s ends.
Limited so perversely?
Everything to these limiting stops?

And so we travel these bandwidths alone
Not knowing our faces, only where we call home
But distantly separate, my corn and your ocean breeze.

Yet these distances do not undo
The success of our journey we’ve taken, we two.

*Shamelessly patterned on one of my favorite poems ever.