OT: BAck to our regularly scheduled OT BS

Twas the Week of Katrina
Twas the week of Katrina, when all through the South
Not a soldier was stirring, not even to grouse;
The black folks were stuck in the Superdome gloom,
In the hopes that some buses would come for them soon.

The children were hungry, awaiting the feds,
While visions of looter bums danced in their heads;
And mama in her 'kerchief, and I in my cap,
Had just settled down to watch late News Nite wrap,

When out of the coverage there arose such a ruckus
I sprang from my couch to see what was the muck up.
Away to the laptop I flew like a flash,
Fired up the browser and pulled up the cache.

The loons on the desk of the news-item show
Raved at FEMA and W for things bein' slow.
When, what to my wondering eyes should appear,
But thousands of blogs, and a story quite queer,

With the little bold bloggers, so lively and quick,
I knew in a moment it must be quite thick.
More rapid than Eagles their discourses came,
And I whistled and shouted and called them by name;

"Now, WIZBANG! now, WHITTLE! now, CAPTAIN and MALKIN!
On, MISHA! on SENSING! on, COX and FORKUM!
To the top of the Page! to the top of them all!
Now bash away! bash away! bash away all!"

As dry leaves that before the wild hurricane fly,
When they meet with an obstacle, blast to the sky,
So up to the news-top the bloggers they flew,
With a spray full of verbs, and some adjectives too.

And then, in a twinkling, I heard on TV
The hemming and hawing of each little proof.
As I drew in my hand, and was flipping around,
Down the cable the new stories came with a bound.

Blanco pressed all too far, with her whine and her hoot,
And her glow got all tarnished when truth came to roost;
A bundle of writs she had flung from her desk,
and spat out like flotsam, washed up with the rest.

Her sneer - how it wrinkled! Her stumbles how sorry!
Her bleats were like poses, her notes quite contrary!
Her droll little pout was drawn up like a "no",
The word she'd used often, when asked for a "go".

The Guard, like a right, she held tight in her teeth,
And the power encircled her head like a wreath;
She had a bad case, and one that sounded quite daft,
It shook, when she gaffed, like a armload of graft.

She was chubby and plump, a right ditsy old gov,
But when times called for pulling, she started to shove;
A blink of her eye and a twist of her head,
Things ground to a halt, she abandoned the dead.

She spoke not a word that would unleash the feds,
Nor fill all the stockings, nor get kids to bed;
Not busing her people ahead of the flood,
or giving them food in a city of mud.

She froze in a crisis, and we blew the whistle,
And way late the press too, like a heat-seeking missile.
But I heard her exclaim, ere she spoke out of spite,
"NEW ORLEANS HAS FLOODED,
LAST ONE TURN OUT THE LIGHTS!"