The Twitterati

Once upon an avo dreary, while I pondered, bleak and sneery,

Over many a deleted and faved volume of forgotten lore—

While I nodded, nearly fapping, suddenly there came a tapping,

As of some one gently beeping, beeping at my notifications door.

“’Tis the Twitterati,” I muttered, “beeping at my notifications door—

Only this and nothing more.”

Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak September;

And each electorate a dying ember wrought its votes upon the floor.

Desperately I felt the sorrow;—Mainly I thought it bizarro

From my books surcease of sorrow—sorrow for the lost candor—

For the rare and perfect discourse which the Twitterati always bore—

Nameless here for evermore.

And the silken, sad, beat of the faving of each blue tweet

Thrilled me—filled me with fantastic errors never felt before;

So that now, to still the retweeting, I stood repeating

“’Tis some Twitterati entreating entrance at my Twitter floor

Some late visitor entreating entrance at my notifications door;—

This it is and nothing more.”

Presently my fingers grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,

“Sir,” said I, “or Madam, truly your disappearance I implore;

But the fact is I was fapping, and so gently you came beeping,

And so faintly you came beeping, beeping at my notifications door,

That I scarce was sure I heard you”—here I opened wide the door;—

Twitterati there and nothing more.

Deep into that interwebs peering, long I stared there wondering, fearing,

Doubting, dreaming dreams no journo ever dared to dream before;

But the Twitterati was unbroken, and their illness gave no token,

And the only thing there spoken was the whispered “biased, you’re”

This I whispered, and a tweet beeped back “loser, sore”—

Merely this and nothing more.