As part of my trial for acceptance into the Society of the Minnesota Master of the Horse, the second task given by Hugh Hewitt was to write an epic poem, mentioning at least ten blogs, including that of the Lord High Commissioner himself, as well as taking swipes at FratersLibertas and the Elder, and one at James Lileks, too.

I decided to proceed, despite the inherent dangers of taking on so many veteran bloggers, by writing an epic poem based on the Gaelic poem Cúirt an Mheán-Oíche (The Midnight Court). This poem can be found in both English and Irish here, for those who want to see how poorly I satirize fine literature. The poem is a great example of an aisling, a dream-vision poem, and in fact is one of the classics in Irish literature.

For my purposes here, I took out most of the 1000 lines or so, the sex, the humor, and the talent, and what's left is below. Just click on the link below to read Cúirt-Blog an Mheán-Oíche, or the Midnight Blog-Court.

UPDATE: The Elder reacts: "If there were still any questions about the disastrous consequences of drinking Hugh's Kool Aid, they should be addressed by this "Epic" poem." Is that what I was drinking? No wonder ...

Also, Atomizer has a new action figure for sale, although what it has to do with Hugh Hewitt, I have no idea.

Cúirt Blog an Mheán-Oíche, or The Midnight Blog-Court
(with apologies to a long-dead Brian Merriman)

As I surfed the Blogosphere, wandering far and near
I spied a restful site ahead.
The Twilight Café, where I got drunk,
and dreamt this dream, where thoughts are thunk.

A dazzling court, with loud report,
My weary eyes and ears beheld.
“Lord High Commissioner Presides,
Hugh Hewitt,”
with other weblogs at his sides.

On his right, to my delight,
sat The Sophorist and Power Line,
The Volokhs too, and the RantingProf,
(but Lileks took December off).

But my hopes were cleft, for on his left,
were Gary Farber and Mickey Kaus,
Romanesko, and the Commissar’s site
(who sat left but leaned oddly right).

No friends behind did I find,
not DC, Jon, nor Brant,
But only the bailiffs, FratersLibertas,
with the Elder on the sidelines in a cast.

[oops – wrong epic poem! Apologies to Don McLean.]

I cried out, “What’s this about?
What crime has been accused?”
Lord Hewitt’s eyes flashed with rage,
“You write too little to fill a page!”

“If you start a site, you are cursed to write
Posts from dawn to midnight,
A roundup there and a blogroll here
Does not serve the blogosphere!

“Captain’s Quarters has new orders,
Your keyboard will know no rest,
These orders given you must obey:
Your postings must fill your day.”

“I have a job!” I began to sob,
“A family to support.
A constant blog, I cannot fund it,
Do you think that I am Instapundit?”

Gasps were heard at these fell words,
From friends and foes alike.
Hewitt intoned, “You have no shame
For mentioning the forbidden name!”

“You shall be cursed, in prose and verse,
Blogs will purge you from their rolls!
Your name is mud, it shall be last,
Lower than … FratersLibertas!!”

I flew awake, my hands aquake,
Had I escaped this fate?
I ran straight home and without delay
Began to post throughout the day!

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