} After the fashion of dazzling men,
} With vim in my blood I pick up my pen,
} And set out for you, o Supplicant mine,
} Coupleted quatrains, styled anapestine.
} Verses, like hearses, 'port dead feet and wit,
} Meandering poorly from church to spit,
} Where the poet is roasted, tied to his quill--
} This never'd have happened to Stratford's Will.
} With Zadoc you start-- and end too, I see--
} Perhaps you subscribe to his helpful daily?
} In't he whining explains his many sad woes,
} And answers questions regarding his toes.
} But as to the phone and Zad's answering skill,
} I fear I must tell you he was useless until
} I developed a sort of shock therapy,
} And, e'en then, rats learned faster than he.
} But seeing him twitch with each ill-answered call,
} Would strengthen the hearts and souls of us all.
} As to my Lisa's peculiar habit
} To go out in public not wearing a whit,
} I must say at first I objected harshly,
} But she quickly convinced me I was silly.
} Merchants now give her deals fantastic
} Merely to watch her saunter and frolic
} About in their aisles, clothed but by hair,
} Having forgotten to buy something to wear.
} Ah, Lisa my love will never displease me,
} So long as she dons but her clear negligee.
} But as to the toes of dear _Ogwa_,
} So stylish and slim, that fascinate you,
} They brim with filth and crustaceans
} In the awkward style of ancient nations.
} The machine in the corner, an Apple G3,
} Amuses my grandkids when they come to see me.
} As to the marble, from Turkish warehouses,
} I find I prefer floors which go well with the louses
} Who mumble in kneeling and begging mercy,
} And who naturally I zot most carefully,
} So that the stains they deposit after the blast
} Do not with my polished marble floor clash.
} The goons, you see, are a necessary precaution,
} To stop any woodchucks to dare to walk in.
} The goons then deposit stiff-legged marmots
} With telemarketers, beyond those grommets,
} Where, in cavernous caves the beasts do battle,
} Each race treating the other as their own breed of cattle.
} As for my pillows, I've many-- too many to count--
} But it's near one div zero, if you know that amount.
} As to the zotted, there's not much to dispose,
} As I've mentioned, their stains do sit at my toes.
} I oftentimes sit smiling as I stare at those spots,
} And recall with perverse pleasure the strength of my zots.
} As to my head and this power and dreading the day,
} "Alas, my ill job," I never would say,
} Indeed to be God is a wonderful thing,
} Though, for copyright purposes, I can't claim to be king.
} But now I grow weary of your pointless questions,
} And wonder, o Supplicant, whence come these whims.
} Are you so starved for a life that you must wander in here,
} And query my every rug, book, and beer?
} Indeed there is more to mortal existence
} Than wandering around and asking questions.
} For example, you could incarnate and reply to some sap,
} Particularly one who asks questions like you have.
} It's tough to be Oracle, it's tough to know all,
} Particularly without leopard skins on the wall.
} But I get my shoes shined by divine messengers,
} I comb my soft hair and greet questioners
} With eternal grace and mild wit to boot,
} And occasionally I pick a Supplicant to shoot.
} In this way I stay young and vibrant and smart,
} And follow the ways of my immortal art.
} Oh, by the way, Supplicant dear,
} You owe the Oracle a fresh, cool new beer.