The Shmavens (apologies to Edgar Allan Poe)
When the air about him thickens, a sweet sensation rises, quickens--
Heart a-quiver, Chris feels words Obamunist deliver legthrills he's not able to ignore.
It's all New Testamenty, really, churchy Super-Tuesday zealy,
He teeters on the edge of torpor, can't remember Hill'ry any more,
Then tears of joy, sprung all unbidden, glisten on his cheeks,
And flow full-bore,
And he leaves the final vestige of his fitness in a puddle on the studio floor.
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Ah, the meretricious speeches Thomas Lauren Friedman preaches
 (What felicitous ability to bore!):
The Chinese are our betters (no useless democratic fetters);
We are morons; we are greed-afflicted gorgons; oh and by the way, we're racist to the core.
And still we overpay his bloviating by a thousand score--
And foot the heating bill for his great bastion ever more!
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And golly how the mad unharnessed hose, awash with all that purple prose,
Fills the Dowdy unfulfilled fantastic fantasies of manly shores! 

Undone a bit by unrequited love, perhaps--or is it lust?--she takes her marriage tips from unwed priests
And if sometimes her heart beats so she cannot mine the wordsmith's ore,
And fingers others' words to make her language soar--
Well, never mind: It's just a girl she is, and nothing more.
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Cosseting his Sully caput, he nightly ponders Palin's output,
O'er many a crazed and frenzied stream of spurious lore.
As he scribbles, nearly drooling, there comes a drumming,
As of someone's heart rate thrumming, thrumming at his condo door.
"It's the sonogram," he flutters. "At last I'll prove the truth about that hawkish whore-
And then I'll find some more to blame her for!"
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We wonder if they'll ever any of them be restored to normal lucid shores.
But quoth the shmavens: "Nevermore!"
