The thread just for fly memes
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The Fly (with apologies to E.A. Poe)
Once upon a Wednesday dreary
While I pondered weak and weary
Over many a quaint and curious question from the moderator’s floor,
While I harkened Kamela’s bitching, suddenly there came an itching
On my head – as if some follicle, I muttered, is up there schvitzing.
Only this and nothing more.And the silken, sad, uncertain chatter of the delusory democrater
Filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
So that now, I stood repeating
‘Tis some follicle itching, itching in a hapless pore.
This it is and nothing more.But, no! Not tic nor sweat disturbed my head.
It was a fly – a fly! – a common insect of the saintly days of yore;
“Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil!—prophet still, if fly or devil!—
By the Trumpian hell that has enslaved me, by the living God that made me—
Tell me now what is my story that the Fates have laid me
In November if not before!
Quoth the Fly, “Nevermore.”The Fly, sitting lonely o’er my eye, spoke only
That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.
Nothing farther then he uttered—not a hindwing then he fluttered—
Till I scarcely more than muttered “Other friends have flown before—
On the morrow Trump will leave me, as my Hopes have flown before.”
Then the Fly said, “Nevermore.”Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
“Doubtless,” said I, “what it utters is its only stock and store
Meanwhile my unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster
Follows fast and follows faster till his rants one message bore—
Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore
Of ‘Never—nevermore’.”“Be that word our sign of parting, Fly or fiend!” I shrieked, upstarting—
“Get thee back into the tempest and the Night’s Plutonian shore!
Take thy mouthparts from out my head, and do not again crosso’er my door!”
Quoth the Fly, “Nevermore.”And the Fly is never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
A thousand clickbait sites beshitting
Its eyes have all the gleaming of a demon’s that is dreaming,
As November bears my reaming ever closer to the shore.
When the White House no more echoes loud with Trumpian roar.
And I’m uncouthly summoned – nevermore!Success is measured by your discipline and inner peace. – Mike Ditka
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The Fly (with apologies to E.A. Poe)
Once upon a Wednesday dreary
While I pondered weak and weary
Over many a quaint and curious question from the moderator’s floor,
While I harkened Kamela’s bitching, suddenly there came an itching
On my head – as if some follicle, I muttered, is up there schvitzing.
Only this and nothing more.And the silken, sad, uncertain chatter of the delusory democrater
Filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
So that now, I stood repeating
‘Tis some follicle itching, itching in a hapless pore.
This it is and nothing more.But, no! Not tic nor sweat disturbed my head.
It was a fly – a fly! – a common insect of the saintly days of yore;
“Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil!—prophet still, if fly or devil!—
By the Trumpian hell that has enslaved me, by the living God that made me—
Tell me now what is my story that the Fates have laid me
In November if not before!
Quoth the Fly, “Nevermore.”The Fly, sitting lonely o’er my eye, spoke only
That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.
Nothing farther then he uttered—not a hindwing then he fluttered—
Till I scarcely more than muttered “Other friends have flown before—
On the morrow Trump will leave me, as my Hopes have flown before.”
Then the Fly said, “Nevermore.”Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
“Doubtless,” said I, “what it utters is its only stock and store
Meanwhile my unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster
Follows fast and follows faster till his rants one message bore—
Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore
Of ‘Never—nevermore’.”“Be that word our sign of parting, Fly or fiend!” I shrieked, upstarting—
“Get thee back into the tempest and the Night’s Plutonian shore!
Take thy mouthparts from out my head, and do not again crosso’er my door!”
Quoth the Fly, “Nevermore.”And the Fly is never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
A thousand clickbait sites beshitting
Its eyes have all the gleaming of a demon’s that is dreaming,
As November bears my reaming ever closer to the shore.
When the White House no more echoes loud with Trumpian roar.
And I’m uncouthly summoned – nevermore!@Catseye3 I take back what I said the other day.
This is the post of the month.
"Now look here, you Baltic gas passer... " - Mik, 6/14/08
The saying, "Lite is just one damn thing after another," is a gross understatement. The damn things overlap.
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The Fly (with apologies to E.A. Poe)
Once upon a Wednesday dreary
While I pondered weak and weary
Over many a quaint and curious question from the moderator’s floor,
While I harkened Kamela’s bitching, suddenly there came an itching
On my head – as if some follicle, I muttered, is up there schvitzing.
Only this and nothing more.And the silken, sad, uncertain chatter of the delusory democrater
Filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
So that now, I stood repeating
‘Tis some follicle itching, itching in a hapless pore.
This it is and nothing more.But, no! Not tic nor sweat disturbed my head.
It was a fly – a fly! – a common insect of the saintly days of yore;
“Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil!—prophet still, if fly or devil!—
By the Trumpian hell that has enslaved me, by the living God that made me—
Tell me now what is my story that the Fates have laid me
In November if not before!
Quoth the Fly, “Nevermore.”The Fly, sitting lonely o’er my eye, spoke only
That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.
Nothing farther then he uttered—not a hindwing then he fluttered—
Till I scarcely more than muttered “Other friends have flown before—
On the morrow Trump will leave me, as my Hopes have flown before.”
Then the Fly said, “Nevermore.”Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
“Doubtless,” said I, “what it utters is its only stock and store
Meanwhile my unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster
Follows fast and follows faster till his rants one message bore—
Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore
Of ‘Never—nevermore’.”“Be that word our sign of parting, Fly or fiend!” I shrieked, upstarting—
“Get thee back into the tempest and the Night’s Plutonian shore!
Take thy mouthparts from out my head, and do not again crosso’er my door!”
Quoth the Fly, “Nevermore.”And the Fly is never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
A thousand clickbait sites beshitting
Its eyes have all the gleaming of a demon’s that is dreaming,
As November bears my reaming ever closer to the shore.
When the White House no more echoes loud with Trumpian roar.
And I’m uncouthly summoned – nevermore!
