Does it seem from a simple couplet's refrain
That we've jumped on the Longfellow/Tennyson train?
Will these epics of booze and elephantine duck
Take us back to a glimpse of primordial muck?
And in the race to ace the year's fondest guest
Who will clamor to bogart his time like a pest?
Is share drink, share nomad, share fowl the best rule?
Can we forsake all question to ponder our drool?
In this threadular marathon if we continue to scheme
Will we get what we want, or continue to dream?