'Twas the night before Fitzmas, when all through the house
Not a FReeper was typing or using their mouse.
Their essays were stored in a file they called "Pitt"
In hopes that the contest would show off their wit.
The authors had wrestled all week to write bad,
While versions of Willie's prose ran off their pad.
And PJ in his perch there atop DUFU Towers
Had just settled his blogs for a few business hours.
When up on the DUFUs there arose such a ruckus,
I sprang from my deep snooze to see what the fuss was.
Away to "My Comments" I flew bada-bing!
Went straight to a Pitt thread to check out the ping.
The mood of delight at a new-written post
Was not what amazed or surprised me the most.
For what to my wondering eyes should appear
But a wee little DUmmie who was holding a beer!
With a bald head, an earring--I've got to admit,
I knew in a moment it must be Will Pitt!
More vapid an English I never had heard,
With sentence on sentence and word upon word.
"Now deader! Now duller! Now wordy and prolix!
On pompous! On pond'rous! Impress PJ-Comix!
Till the end of the page! Till a volume you fill!
Now write away! Write away! Write it like Will!"
He spoke not much more, which was so unlike Pitt;
He usually rambles and piles up his spit.
We wondered the cause of this newfound restraint--
Oh, not that we're angry or making complaint!
Was there something amiss? What's the worst that we feared?
But we heard Pitt exclaim, ere he soon disappeared:
"I've got to get back--a new essay to write!
I just heard that Fitz . . . is about to indict!"
Great ditty. I’ll have to check out DUmmieland to see if there is any mention of this anniversary there.
All those entries take the cake; each and every single one of them is gem, a jewel.
I was trying, in vain, to compose some sort of entry myself, but I was not in my Bostonian Drunkard mood—i.e., tedious and boring—and so anything I attempted to write came out sparkling, which of course was no honest imitation of the Bostonian Drunkard.
So I gave up.
The other William Rivers Pitt, that 700+ cubic tons of antique swine excrement (from circa 1875-1950), about a city block away from this house, blossomed in all sorts of colors today (Monday), although I have no idea what sorts of flowers—and there seem to be many different sorts—they are.
Antique William Pittery does wonders for botany.