THE VOTOMATIC 


                        Once upon a midnight dreary 
                        While I pondered, weak and weary, 
                        Upon many a quaint and curious 
                        Dimple on punchcards  galore, 

                        While I pondered, nearly napping, 
                        Suddenly there came a tapping 
                        Like a stylus gently rapping, 
                        Rapping on a stuck chad's door. 

                        "'Tis some muddled man," I muttered, 
                        "Some fatigued and  feckless voter, 
                        Expressing his  intent for Gore. 
                        Only this, and nothing more." 

             Quoth my Party: "Evermore!" 
               

                        Eagerly I sought the morrow, 
                        Vainly, I sought to borrow 
                        Some relief, surcease of sorrow, 
                        Sorrow for Therese LePore. 

             Quoth my Party: "Count for Gore!" 
               

                        In my gut the chads were bouncing, 
                        Flutters of  new cards announcing, 
                        Eagerness for yet more counting, 
                        And recounting, til they bent and tore -- 

             Quoth my Party: "Evermore!" 
               

                      Counting, counting, more recounting, 
                      Piles of chads in billows mounting, 
                      Swirling as if from a fountain, 
                      Whilst crowds chant and pound the door. 

             Quoth their Party: "Ever sore!" 
               

                      Courtroom motions, writs, objections, 
                      Affidavits, briefs, rejections, 
                      Lawyers spouting numbered sections, 
                      Sharing their enchanting lore, 

             Quoth the VP: "More, yet more!" 
               

                      Every dimple shall be counted, 
                      Every litigation mounted, 
                      Racial trumpets sharply sounded, 
                      Al and Jesse to the fore, 

             Quoth the VP: "More, yet more!" 
               

                      Characters assassinated, 
                      Media thus fascinated, 
                      Anchorpersons grandly rated, 
                      Each one now the VP's whore, 

             Quoth the VP, "More,  yet  more!" 
               

                      Then, alas, the counting ended. 
                      Stopped, the rules no more bended, 
                      Biased counts  no more defended-- 
                      Seven judges  now to  Gore, 
               
             Quoth per curiam, "There's the door!"


January 9, 2001 version. Evolved from work by Edgar Allen Poe, Alex
Raskovich,  Eric Rasmusen, and others.