Jade
Smug lives here.
- Jul 8, 2008
- 34,628
- 53,702
- AFL Club
- Essendon
Once upon a midnight dreary, a Hawk fan pondered, weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of premierships before—
While he nodded, smugly fapping, suddenly there came a clipping,
As of some one gently stripping, stripping at their list before.
“’Tis just Clarko,” he muttered, “flipping at our list some more—
Only this and nothing more.”
Ah, distinctly he remembered it was in the post September;
With each report of Jaegars tendons he threw his tubesock on the floor.
Eagerly he wished the morrow;—vainly they had sought to borrow
From a trade surcease of sorrow—sorrow for the lost before—
For smug and tasteless victory which the hawks had seen before—
Surely here for evermore.
And the scary, sad, uncertain rustling of each list movement
Thrilled him—filled him with fantastic terrors never felt before;
So that now, to still the beating of his heart, he stood repeating
“’Tis just Clarko dipping and equipping our list a little more—
Some genius outwitting all the others like before;—
This it is and nothing more.”
Presently his soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
“Clarko,” said he, “or Hodgey, surely an explanation I implore;
But the fact is I was fapping, and so gently you came snapping,
And so roughly you came ripping, chipping at our list before,
That I scarce was sure I heard you”—here he read the list some more;—
Average there and nothing more.
Deep into that shitness peering, long he stood there wondering, fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no Hawk fan ever dared to dream before;
But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token,
And the only word there spoken were the stuttered words, “Like before?”
This he whispered, and an echo murmured back the words, “Like before”—
Merely this and nothing more.
Back into the smugness turning, all his soul within him burning,
Soon again he saw a ripping somewhat harsher than before.
“Surely,” said he, “surely that is Lewis chasing contract status;
Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore—
Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore;—
’Tis a ploy and nothing more!”
Open here he flung the website, when, with rarely a skirt and stutter,
Shown there was a frightful Bomber like the horrid days before;
Not the least obeisance made they; not a minute stopped or stayed they;
But, with mien of Hird or Watson, perched looking at the round one draw—
Perched upon a training palace better than any seen before—
Perched, and looked, and nothing more.
Then this red sashed brute beguiling his sad fancy into smiling,
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,
“Though thy crest be old and fearful,” he said, “Hawks surely are still cheerful,
Ghastly grim and ancient Bomber wandering from the nightly shore—
Tell me why the Hawks cannot salute as they have done before!”
Quoth the Bomber “Nevermore.”
Much he marvelled this forgotten beast to hear discourse so plainly,
Though its answer little meaning—little relevancy bore;
For Hawks cannot help believing that even with the harsh list reeving
Ever yet was blessed with seeing Clarko win just like before—
Men or beasts within the training palace, matters little he so swore,
It means nothing “Nevermore.”
But the Bomber, sitting waiting in that palace, spoke only
That one word, as if its soul in that one word it did outpour.
Nothing farther then it uttered—not an eyelid it then fluttered—
Till he scarcely more than muttered “Other teams have tried before—
On the morrow Sam will soothe me, as he has done before.”
Then the Bomber said “Nevermore.”
Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
“Doubtless,” said he, “what it utters is its only stock and store
Caught from some unhappy trauma which unmerciful disaster
Followed fast and followed faster till the weight one burden bore—
Till the dirges of its hope that melancholy burden bore
Of ‘Never—nevermore’.”
But the Bomber still beguiling all his fancy into smiling,
Straight he wheeled a trophy case in front of beast, and crest and more;
Then, he sat their smugly thinking, he betook himself to linking
Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous best of yore—
What this grim, imposing, frightful, staunch, and ominous foe of yore
Meant in croaking “Nevermore.”
This he sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
To the beast whose fiery eyes now burned into his bosom’s core;
This and more he sat divining, with his head at ease reclining
On the rose tinted lining of many a memory leftover,
But those memories, always recent, were a distant hangover
What if it is, nevermore?
Then, he thought, the air grew thicker, his heart strained and beat much quicker
Squeezed by horrors not considered by a Hawk fan blinded as before.
“Beast,” he cried, “your eyes they do not scare me—our list does not offend me
Clarko promised me a reload and a victory like before;
Mitchell, O’Meara, they can take us there once more”
Quoth the Bomber “Nevermore.”
“Bomber!” said he, “thing of evil!—Bomber still, if beast or devil!—
Whether karma sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,
Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted—
On this heart by horror haunted—tell me truly, I implore—
Is there – is there victory in Clarko?—tell me—tell me, I implore!”
Quoth the Bomber “Nevermore.”
“Bomber!” said he, “thing of evil!—Bomber still, if beast or devil!
By that ground we both have bested—by that cup we both have wrested—
Tell this soul with smugness dripping, with all this brutal stripping,
If Hawks can clasp a glittered cup like many years before—
Clasp a win we still deserve, reloaded, by Clarko’s will once more.”
Quoth the Bomber “Nevermore.”
“Be that word our sign of parting, beast or fiend!” he shrieked, upstarting—
“Get thee back into the tempest and the cellar like before!
Leave no line in the sand as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!
Leave my smugness unbroken!— leave me sightless as before!
Take thy gaze from off our gut, and take thy foot from off our throat!”
Quoth the Bomber “Nevermore.”
And that Bomber, never blinking, still is staring, still is staring
From the training palace at the round one draw;
And its eyes have all the seeming of a demon’s that is dreaming,
The strength upon it’s list makes a mockery of memories of before
And the cause of all his smugness, that carcass picked and raw
Shall be lifted – nevermore!
Over many a quaint and curious volume of premierships before—
While he nodded, smugly fapping, suddenly there came a clipping,
As of some one gently stripping, stripping at their list before.
“’Tis just Clarko,” he muttered, “flipping at our list some more—
Only this and nothing more.”
Ah, distinctly he remembered it was in the post September;
With each report of Jaegars tendons he threw his tubesock on the floor.
Eagerly he wished the morrow;—vainly they had sought to borrow
From a trade surcease of sorrow—sorrow for the lost before—
For smug and tasteless victory which the hawks had seen before—
Surely here for evermore.
And the scary, sad, uncertain rustling of each list movement
Thrilled him—filled him with fantastic terrors never felt before;
So that now, to still the beating of his heart, he stood repeating
“’Tis just Clarko dipping and equipping our list a little more—
Some genius outwitting all the others like before;—
This it is and nothing more.”
Presently his soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
“Clarko,” said he, “or Hodgey, surely an explanation I implore;
But the fact is I was fapping, and so gently you came snapping,
And so roughly you came ripping, chipping at our list before,
That I scarce was sure I heard you”—here he read the list some more;—
Average there and nothing more.
Deep into that shitness peering, long he stood there wondering, fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no Hawk fan ever dared to dream before;
But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token,
And the only word there spoken were the stuttered words, “Like before?”
This he whispered, and an echo murmured back the words, “Like before”—
Merely this and nothing more.
Back into the smugness turning, all his soul within him burning,
Soon again he saw a ripping somewhat harsher than before.
“Surely,” said he, “surely that is Lewis chasing contract status;
Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore—
Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore;—
’Tis a ploy and nothing more!”
Open here he flung the website, when, with rarely a skirt and stutter,
Shown there was a frightful Bomber like the horrid days before;
Not the least obeisance made they; not a minute stopped or stayed they;
But, with mien of Hird or Watson, perched looking at the round one draw—
Perched upon a training palace better than any seen before—
Perched, and looked, and nothing more.
Then this red sashed brute beguiling his sad fancy into smiling,
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,
“Though thy crest be old and fearful,” he said, “Hawks surely are still cheerful,
Ghastly grim and ancient Bomber wandering from the nightly shore—
Tell me why the Hawks cannot salute as they have done before!”
Quoth the Bomber “Nevermore.”
Much he marvelled this forgotten beast to hear discourse so plainly,
Though its answer little meaning—little relevancy bore;
For Hawks cannot help believing that even with the harsh list reeving
Ever yet was blessed with seeing Clarko win just like before—
Men or beasts within the training palace, matters little he so swore,
It means nothing “Nevermore.”
But the Bomber, sitting waiting in that palace, spoke only
That one word, as if its soul in that one word it did outpour.
Nothing farther then it uttered—not an eyelid it then fluttered—
Till he scarcely more than muttered “Other teams have tried before—
On the morrow Sam will soothe me, as he has done before.”
Then the Bomber said “Nevermore.”
Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
“Doubtless,” said he, “what it utters is its only stock and store
Caught from some unhappy trauma which unmerciful disaster
Followed fast and followed faster till the weight one burden bore—
Till the dirges of its hope that melancholy burden bore
Of ‘Never—nevermore’.”
But the Bomber still beguiling all his fancy into smiling,
Straight he wheeled a trophy case in front of beast, and crest and more;
Then, he sat their smugly thinking, he betook himself to linking
Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous best of yore—
What this grim, imposing, frightful, staunch, and ominous foe of yore
Meant in croaking “Nevermore.”
This he sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
To the beast whose fiery eyes now burned into his bosom’s core;
This and more he sat divining, with his head at ease reclining
On the rose tinted lining of many a memory leftover,
But those memories, always recent, were a distant hangover
What if it is, nevermore?
Then, he thought, the air grew thicker, his heart strained and beat much quicker
Squeezed by horrors not considered by a Hawk fan blinded as before.
“Beast,” he cried, “your eyes they do not scare me—our list does not offend me
Clarko promised me a reload and a victory like before;
Mitchell, O’Meara, they can take us there once more”
Quoth the Bomber “Nevermore.”
“Bomber!” said he, “thing of evil!—Bomber still, if beast or devil!—
Whether karma sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,
Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted—
On this heart by horror haunted—tell me truly, I implore—
Is there – is there victory in Clarko?—tell me—tell me, I implore!”
Quoth the Bomber “Nevermore.”
“Bomber!” said he, “thing of evil!—Bomber still, if beast or devil!
By that ground we both have bested—by that cup we both have wrested—
Tell this soul with smugness dripping, with all this brutal stripping,
If Hawks can clasp a glittered cup like many years before—
Clasp a win we still deserve, reloaded, by Clarko’s will once more.”
Quoth the Bomber “Nevermore.”
“Be that word our sign of parting, beast or fiend!” he shrieked, upstarting—
“Get thee back into the tempest and the cellar like before!
Leave no line in the sand as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!
Leave my smugness unbroken!— leave me sightless as before!
Take thy gaze from off our gut, and take thy foot from off our throat!”
Quoth the Bomber “Nevermore.”
And that Bomber, never blinking, still is staring, still is staring
From the training palace at the round one draw;
And its eyes have all the seeming of a demon’s that is dreaming,
The strength upon it’s list makes a mockery of memories of before
And the cause of all his smugness, that carcass picked and raw
Shall be lifted – nevermore!
Tanked XXI: Nevermore
Saturday, 25th March, 2017, 1pm-7pm
Mt View Hotel
70 Bridge Road
Richmond, VIC 3121
Saturday, 25th March, 2017, 1pm-7pm
Mt View Hotel
70 Bridge Road
Richmond, VIC 3121
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