Edward C. Hartman*
Once upon a morning cheery, while I pondered
bleak and bleary
Over many a quaint and curious lot of demographic lore—
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a snapping
As of someone gently wrapping, wrapping at my hallway door.
"The Journal carrier," I muttered, "wrapping at my hallway door—
Only that and nothing more."
Open here I flung the portal, saw departing some staunch mortal
On my step the Wall Street Journal wrapped for rainy days and more;
Not a drop of water on it, sheltered by its plastic bonnet;
So unwrapped with rapt attention perched it on my exerciser Model Number IV;
Perched upon a magazine holder on my skiing exerciser Model Number IV.
For reading as I have before.
Turning to the editors' writing, quickly felt my flame a' lighting,
"Doubtless," said I, "what they write is their only stock and store
Caught from some unhappy Pope, with little logic, lots of hope."
Skiing fast and reading faster but one message all the writings bore—
Till the burden of the reading had become a melancholy bore.
Only that and nothing more.
Water and our air
polluted, roads for land are substituted
And each morn reporters tell us that our roads can take no more.
Still the Journal says solutions are at hand for these pollutions,
Faith in science and the Pope together sail us to some wondrous shore,
Simple faith in Pope and science together to some wondrous shore,
Only this and nothing more.
Immigration problems mounting, crime statistics up —and counting,
Every page another issue to be addressed by less, not more.
While the Journal in its preaching, common sense it seems is leaching;
Like some maddened maven's senseless spoutings for the senseless to adore,
Repeating endless words of faith in growth, the senseless to adore.
Repeating this for evermore.
"Don't be concerned about pollution. Concentrate on absolution!
This great nation becomes much greater as we open up our door.
Every immigrant we love, each conception's from above.
Let each American city become an American Singapore.
Pile house on house, apartment on apartment as they do in Singapore".
Quoth the maven, "Pile on more."
"Don't curse the
rivers rapid drying nor the wildlife lands a' dying.
Our scientists will find a way to help us find some more.
Curse the doubled border guards, the "biometric" ID cards,
Curse Tancredo and the rest whose closed-door policies we abhor.
Aye! How much longer must we fight those closed-door policies we abhor?"
Quoth the maven, "Evermore!"
And the maven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the pallid dust of skiing exerciser Model Number IV;
And its "Ayes" have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming,
And the reader o're it screaming throws the Journal to the floor;
And my soul from out that prattle that lies gloating on the floor
Shall be lifted —nevermore!
* Used with permission of the author.
Ed Hartman is Editor of < www.ThinkPopulation.org >.
See original at < http://www.thinkpopulation.org/pages/themaven.htm >.