When I was in Cambridge yesterday, a mysterious dark lady approached me in Harvard Yard. She pressed a sheet of paper into my hand, said she was a poet and a WEEKLY STANDARD reader, and asked me to share this effort, apparently based on Andrew Marvell's "To His Coy Mistress," with our readers.

I'm happy to do so.


To Her Chris Christie

Had we but world enough, and time,

This coyness, Gov'nor, were no crime.

We would sit down and think which year

To run, and ignore that 2012 grows near;

Thou by the Hudson River's side

Shouldst teachers fire; I by the wide

Charles would your policies praise,

And watch your en'mies retreat in a daze.

And you should, if you please, refuse

Till the conversion of lib'ral Jews.

But at my back I always hear

Time's winged chariot growing near;

And yonder all before us lie

A 2012 field of mediocrity.

Thy charisma shall not be found,

Nor, in our TV debates, shall sound

Thy booming voice; and all the rest

Of the R's shall fail the test.

And your quaint honor will turn to dust,

As turn on you New Jersey must.

Trenton's a fine and private place,

But none I think will there embrace.

Now therefore, while the youthful hue

Sits on thy ample skin like morning dew,

And while thy willing soul transpires

At every pore with instant fires,

Now please run the race while you may;

And now, like an ambitious pol of prey,

Rather at once the field devour,

Than languish in their losing power.

Let you roll all your strength, and all

Your fierceness, up into one big ball;

And win our primaries with rough strife,

And for the general election bring voters to life.

Thus, though you may weigh near a ton,

Let all band together to make you run.

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