Rambling Rhodes

I Have My Own Horn, And Now I'd Like To Toot It

Far be it for to brag about something I've done, but I couldn't let this little gem I conjured just go softly into that good night. I took part in a let-off-some-steam-at-George-Lucas-and-his-shitty-Star-Wars-Remakes poetry contest yesterday. I only offered up a couple of poems, but I was really proud of my second one, which I'm reposting here, because I can.

Breathes there the man with soul so dead,
Who never to himself hath said,
This is my own, my native Han!
Whose heart hath ne'er within him burn'd,
As he watched the footage Lucas hath turn'd
>From a masterpiece to something bland!
If such there breathe, go, mark him well;
For him there's but Jar Jar in Star Wars hell;
High though he his, he points no Lucas blame,
Boundless his denial as wish can claim;
Despite those bong hits, and action figures on shelf,
The wretch, content to be a mental elf,
Living, shall forfeit Han's renown,
And, content with Greedo shooting first, shall go down
To the vile dust, from whence he sprung,
Unwept, unhonored, and unsung.

(With apologies to Sir Walter Scott)

Wow, I'm great!