"The Pigman", by Owen & Allanthony Poerrems
Once upon a midnight dreary, while I xeeted, drunk and weary,
At many a sociopathic cyberstalker child of Patposting lore—
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently trotting, trotting at my half-hovel door.
"'Tis some stalker", I muttered, "trotting at my half-hovel door—
Only this and nothing more."
Ah, distinctly I remember it was in cold Milwaukee,
As I feared 'tis might be yet another swatting.
Eagerly I wished the morrow;— vainly I had sought to borrow
From my books surcease of sorrow—sorrow for "why us?"—
For that burning, radiant question which I always ask, "why us?"—
Unanswered here for evermore.
And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of my bath robe
Thrilled me—filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating
"'Tis some stalker who called the MPD over to my half-hovel door—
Some stalker child who called the MPD over to my half-hovel door;—
This it is, and nothing more."
Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
"Sir," said I, "or Madam, to stop contacting this number of you I implore;
But the fact is you are snapping, and the police will come rapping;
And so the police will come tapping, tapping at your chamber door,
That to prison you will go"—here I opened wide the door—
Darkness there and nothing more.
Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering,
Fearing, doubting, xeeting xeets no mortal ever dared to xeet before;
But the silence was unbroken, and no Xitter user gave me token,
And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, "Hello?"
This I whispered, an echo murmured back the words, "No, child, no!"—
Merely this and nothing more.
Back into my half-hovel turning, all my soul within me burning,
Soon again I heard a trotting somewhat louder than before.
“Surely,” said I, “surely that is something at my window lattice;
Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore—
Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore;—
'Tis my Nikki's bull and nothing more!”
Open here I flung the shutter, when, with a graceless trot and stutter,
In there stepped a shapely Pigman of the Fatrick days of yore;
Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped and stayed he;
But, with mien of lord and lady, climbed above my half-hovel door—
Climbed upon a bust of Quasi just above my half-hovel door—
Climbed, and sat, and nothing more.
Then this obese hog beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
By the fat and gay decorum of the countenance it wore,
"Though thy gut be round and swollen, thou," I said, "art no misbegotten,
Ghastly fat and fruity Pigman wandering from the Milwaukee shore—
Tell me what thy lordly name is on Milwaukee's frigid shore!"
Quoth the Pigman "No, child, no."
Much I marvelled this unsightly hog to bear discourse so plainly,
Though its answer little meaning—little relevancy bore;
For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
Ever yet was blessed with seeing pig above his half-hovel door—
Pig or beast upon the sculptured bust above his half-hovel door,
With such name as "No, child, no."
But the Pigman, sitting lonely on the Quasi bust, spoke only
Those three words, as if his soul in those three words he did outpour.
Nothing farther then he uttered—his round gut he never fluttered—
Till I scarcely more than muttered "Other friends have left before—
On the morrow he will leave me, as my first wife left before."
Then the pig said "No, child, no."
Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
"Doubtless,", said I, "what it utters is its only stock and store
Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster
followed fast and followed faster till his xeets one burden bore—
Till the funsters lost all Hope as their xeets only one fruit bore
Of "No, child—no, child, no."
But the Pigman still beguiling all my fancy into smiling,
Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of pig, and bust and door;
Then, upon the fart couch sinking, I betook myself to linking
Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this enormous pig of yore—
What this fat, unsightly, ghastly, gay and enormous pig of yore
Meant in squealing "No, child, no."
This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
To the hog whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom’s core;
This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining
On the fart couch’s velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o’er,
But whose velvet-violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o’er,
She shall press, ah, nevermore!
Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
Swung by Seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor.
“Wretch,” I cried, “thy God hath lent thee—by these angels he hath sent thee
Respite—respite and nepenthe from thy question of "why us?";
Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe and forget this question of "why us?"!”
Quoth the Pigman “No, child, no.”
“Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil!—prophet still, if hog or devil!—
Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,
Desolate yet all undaunted, on this Wisconsin land enchanted—
On this home by Horror haunted—tell me truly, I implore—
Will the—will the stalkers face jailtime—tell me—tell me, I implore!”
Quoth the Pigman “No, child, no.”
“Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil!—prophet still, if hog or devil!
By that Heaven that bends above us—by that President of both of us—
Tell this soul with sorrow laden if my fates will turn out thus,
I shall answer the burning question which my family chants, "Why us?"
Answer that burning, radiant question that my family chants, "Why us?"”
Quoth the Pigman “No, child, no.”
“Be those words our sign of parting, pig or fiend!” I shrieked, upstarting—
“Get thee back into the tempest and Milwaukee's frigid shore!
Leave no hoof print as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!
Leave my loneliness unbroken!—quit the bust above my door!
Remove thy trotters from my heart, and take thy form from off my door!”
Quoth the Pigman “No, child, no.”
And the Pigman, never shifting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the pallid bust of Quasi just above my half-hovel door;
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon’s that is dreaming,
And the lamp-light o’er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
And if you think my soul from out the shadow that lies fatly on the floor
Shall be lifted—no, child, no!
