Monarch of red mists and foul invectiveness!
Close bosom-friend of the Libertarian;
Conspiring with him how to groan and cuss
With venom, the parliamentarians that circles round us run;
To joust with argument aplenty,
And fill all ears with anarchism to the core;
To swell the dissent, and prime the nervous souls,
For a life with no government! No MPs,
And still more, personal responsibility!
And still they think benefits will never cease,
For Labour has o’erbrimmed their scummy minds.
Who hath not cussed thee oft amid thy blog?
Sometimes whoever seeks anew may find
Thee writing careless on a cyber wind,
Thy face soft-furrowed by the senseless comment;
Or on a half-written Twitter sound asleep,
Drowsed with the grapes of wrath, while thy hook
Spares the next Twit and all its futile words;
And sometimes as a blogger really should,
Steady thy laden hand across a post;
Or by a cyber-screen, with patient look,
Thou watchest the last oozings, hours by hours.
Where are thy rants of inspiration? Ay, where are they?
Think not of them, we have your past posts still, –
While closed blogs mark the end of day
And touch those who read with gloomy hue;
Now in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn
The lack of Obo words, borne aloft
Or sinking as the blog muse lives or dies;
And fellow bloggers loud bleat from hilly bourn;
Opponents jeer, but – now for kindness not forgot
The Raccoon whistles from a foreign-croft;
And mourns the King of Twitter in the skies.
With apologies to Keats.