A Poem for Rod Blagojevich

02/17/2009 05:12 am ET | Updated Nov 17, 2011

Who knew that disgraced Illinois Governor Rod Blagojevich was a lover of classic poetry? In a speech last week defending his decision to remain in office, Blago surprised everyone by quoting the inspirational poem "Ulysses" by the great Victorian poet Alfred Lord Tennyson (who, no doubt, rolled in his grave). The absurd scene inspired me to write my own little poem for Blago, based on another English classic, "La Belle Dame Sans Merci" by John Keats. The original is here.

If you're similarly inspired, feel free to add your own poem in the comments...

Le Haircut Sans Merci
(The Haircut Without Pity)

O what can ail thee, Obama,
Alone and palely loitering?
On Tuesday, you'll be President.
The whole nation will sing.

O what can ail thee, Obama,
So haggard and woe-begone?
The election ended weeks ago.
You and your party won.

I see a shadow on your brow
With anguish moist and fever dew,
And all the color in your cheeks
Fast withereth too.

Blagojevich was here today,
That Governor we all revile.
His hair was combed down perfectly,
And his eyes were wild.

"Surely you're resigning, Rod,"
I said to him, "you're done."
He look'd at me unflinchingly
And quoted Tennyson.

He tail'd me to the men's room next,
Then through the office all day long.
Sidelong would he comb (and comb)
His hair and prattle on.

He was speaking of the Burris pick--
That senator who took my place--
When in motions strange his hair...
Began to rise above his face.

The strands were calling out to me,
In lurid ways I can't forget.
I can still see those wild, wild eyes
And smell the Aqua Net.

Then I was suddenly asleep,
And there I dream'd--Ah! woe betide!
The darkest dream I ever dreamed
On the cold hill's side.

I saw barbers, shampooers, too,
And stylists, death pale were they all;
They cried--"Le haircut sans merci
Hath thee in thrall!"

I saw bent scissors in the gloam
With horrid warning gaping wide
And I awoke and found me here
On the cold hill's side.

And that is why I sojourn here
Alone and palely loitering,
Though Tuesday I'll be President,
And the whole nation will sing.