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From 2010. Narrator is Robert Gibbs, snooty White House Press Secretary. Lay, O Lord, a curse on press men, rude and churlish, sad, obsessed men Who persist to query me on matters they know I must ignore. As I parry, neatly jinking, Tapper stares at me, unblinking; No doubt he is thinking, thinking Robert Gibbs is short one oar. Of them all, him I abhor. Yes, the fire is now an ember from a long-ago November When every media staff member bowed and scraped outside my door. Cocksure, I held my pressers (Helen! Old as earth, God bless her), Brushing off reporters—lessers, lessers who were such a bore, Including Jake the Tapper, whom the gods named my bête noire. From the start, we’ve been at war. There! He rises, smarmy, sassy; I feel dizzy, bloated, gassy, Sickened, now stricken with the urge to swat this gadfly to the floor. As I tamp down nauseation, purge my thoughts of his castration, Jake the Tapper, this . . . crustacean floats a challenge like a spore, And it roots inside my core. Shaken now, I face him squarely, caustic tongue in check, just barely: “Scribe,” I bark, “or scrivener, hotly your aspersion I deplore. Blurted out while I was wrapping, in the middle of recapping, So to get your mates to clapping, clapping, because you're plainly sore. Best be careful, sir,” I warn him; “You are swimming far from shore.” Says he louder: “Lie no more.” The rabble rise, and all are cheering; I stand my ground, erect and sneering, Mulling whether it is possible for order to restore. Finally, the room grows still, then someone shouts out, sounding shrill, “Robert Gibbs has stained his office and has much to answer for.” Here the rest take up the refrain: “Gibbs has much to answer for. He must pledge to lie no more.” “Leave!,” I roar, my stomach churning. “Briefing’s done, we are adjourning.” No one has moved when Jake starts . . . humming with a backup group of four. And then they laugh to underscore they will dish me out what-for From a slammin’ gangsta score: Gibbsy doan wants ya fussin’ wid ‘im Doan wants ya mussin’ wid ‘im Wants ya to be a playa pushin’ single paya So shut your faces ya know your places Stay in the traces and ya’ll score some primo dope And he’ll let ya stay inside the rope Jake the Rapper, never droning, keeps intoning, keeps intoning In the press room I abandoned, oh, a few months heretofore. Ah, that shattering refrain, I shall hear it in my brain— Evermore!

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The Raving

From 2010. Narrator is Robert Gibbs, snooty White House Press Secretary. Lay, O Lord, a curse on press men, rude and churlish, sad, obsessed men Who persist to query me on matters they know I must ignore. As I parry, neatly jinking, Tapper stares at me, unblinking; No doubt he is thinking, thinking Robert Gibbs is short one oar. Of them all, him I abhor. Yes, the fire is now an ember from a long-ago November When every media staff member bowed and scraped outside my door. Cocksure, I held my pressers (Helen! Old as earth, God bless her), Brushing off reporters—lessers, lessers who were such a bore, Including Jake the Tapper, whom the gods named my bête noire. From the start, we’ve been at war. There! He rises, smarmy, sassy; I feel dizzy, bloated, gassy, Sickened, now stricken with the urge to swat this gadfly to the floor. As I tamp down nauseation, purge my thoughts of his castration, Jake the Tapper, this . . . crustacean floats a challenge like a spore, And it roots inside my core. Shaken now, I face him squarely, caustic tongue in check, just barely: “Scribe,” I bark, “or scrivener, hotly your aspersion I deplore. Blurted out while I was wrapping, in the middle of recapping, So to get your mates to clapping, clapping, because you're plainly sore. Best be careful, sir,” I warn him; “You are swimming far from shore.” Says he louder: “Lie no more.” The rabble rise, and all are cheering; I stand my ground, erect and sneering, Mulling whether it is possible for order to restore. Finally, the room grows still, then someone shouts out, sounding shrill, “Robert Gibbs has stained his office and has much to answer for.” Here the rest take up the refrain: “Gibbs has much to answer for. He must pledge to lie no more.” “Leave!,” I roar, my stomach churning. “Briefing’s done, we are adjourning.” No one has moved when Jake starts . . . humming with a backup group of four. And then they laugh to underscore they will dish me out what-for From a slammin’ gangsta score: Gibbsy doan wants ya fussin’ wid ‘im Doan wants ya mussin’ wid ‘im Wants ya to be a playa pushin’ single paya So shut your faces ya know your places Stay in the traces and ya’ll score some primo dope And he’ll let ya stay inside the rope Jake the Rapper, never droning, keeps intoning, keeps intoning In the press room I abandoned, oh, a few months heretofore. Ah, that shattering refrain, I shall hear it in my brain— Evermore!