The Rogen

Once upon a midday dreary, while I pondered Timothy Leary,
Over many a droll and curious volume of forgotten lore,
While I smoked, nearly coughing, suddenly there came a scoffing
As of some one gently quaffing, quaffing at my very sores.
'Tis my mind,' I muttered, 'doffing the pain of my sores -
Only this, and nothing more.'

Ah, distinctly I remember it was the dead of Summer,
And each separate waking bummer came up through the creaking floor
Eagerly I wished tomorrow; - vainly I had sought to hollow
From my mind visions of sorrow - sorrow for the sightly bore -
For that often and duplicated fluff of a Hollywood bore -
Nameless here for evermore.

And the raucous rambunctious echoing of each white wall
Thrilled me - filled me with tremendous terrors endured before;
But still now, to ease the beating of my brain, I stood repeating
'Tis my fragile mind entreating entrance at my psyche's door -
Some midday freak out entreating entrance at my psyche's door-
This it is and nothing more.'

Presently my head grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
"Tard,' said I, 'or Retard, truly you must try your best to explore;
The notion that I've been smoking, and thusly so gently toking,
When there upon came your joking, joking at my psyche's door,
That I scarce believed I heard you' - here I said hello behind the door; -
Darkness there and nothing more.

Deep into the darkness peering, long I stood there silent and leering,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before;
But no joke was spoken, and there was no sign of Rogen,
The silence remained unbroken save for the whispered words, 'a bore!'
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, 'a bore!'
Merely this and nothing more.

Back into my bedroom turning, all my guts within me churning,
Soon again I heard a scoffing somewhat louder than before
'Surely,' I said, 'surely that is something outside at my window;
Let me seen then, what the fuck it is, and this mystery explore -
Let my balls be still a moment and this mystery explore; -
'Tis the wind and nothing more!'

Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a shit and mutter,
In there stepped a fattened jew of the saintly days of bore.
Not the least obeisance made he; he not a minute stopped or stayed he;
But with the right of a Crystal, perched above my chamber door
Perched upon a bust of Kesey, just above my chamber door,
Perched and sat, and nothing more.

Then this fattening man beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
By the silly and jocund state of countenance he so aptly wore
"Though thy chest be hairy and dense thou,"  I said "art no comedian,
Fattened, grim, and silly bargain, wandering the Hollywood shore.
Tell me what the shameless name is on Hollywood's Plutonian shore."
Quoth the Rogen, "Nevermore."

Much I marveled this foolish clown to hear bullshit so plainly;
Though his answer gave little meaning, little relevancy bore;
For we cannot help agreeing that no sane human being
Ever yet was plagued with seeing fool above his chamber door,
Jew or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door,
With such name as "Nevermore."

But the fool,sitting lonely on that ancient bust, spoke only
That one word, as if his guts in that one word he did outpour.
Nothing further he uttered; not a man tit did he butter,
Till I scarcely more than muttered, "Other fools have come before;
On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before."
Then the bird said, "Nevermore."

Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
"Doubtfull," said I, "what it utters is its only hope not to be a bore,
Caught from some unhappy master, whom unmerciful disaster
Followed fast and followed faster, till his jokes one burden bore, --
Till the songs of his love that melancholy boredom bore
Of "Never--nevermore."

But the clown still beguilling all my sad soul into smiling,
Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of jew and bust and door;
Then, upon the cold seat sinking, I took myself to linking
Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous fool of yore -
What this grim, overweight, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous fool of yore
Meant in laughing 'Nevermore.'

This I sat deeply in thinking, but no syllable came finking,
To this fool whose empty eyes now bored their way in my head's core;
This and more I sat bribing another drop from a drink I was imbibing
On the desk's wooden lining that the lamp-light gloated o'er
But whose cigarette burns lining with the lamp-light gloating o'er,
He shall burn, ah, forever more!

Then, methought, the air smelled vile, perfumed by Rogen's bile
Spat out upon the very carpeted fluffed floor.
'Bastard,' I cried, 'thy Producer hath lent thee--by such demons he has sent thee
Respite - respite and nepenthe from thy memories of that bore!
Quaff, oh quaff this kind of nepenthe, and forget this lost bore!
Guffawed the Rogen, 'Nevermore.'

'Prophet!' said I, 'master of bores! - prophet still, if actor or devil! -
Whether anger sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,
Desolate yet all undaunted, on this warm land enchanted -
On this home by horror haunted - tell me truly, I implore -
Is there - is there laughs in Zack and Miri? - tell me, you fat bore!'
Quoth the Rogen, 'Nevermore.'

'Prophet!' said I, 'master of bores! - prophet still, if actor or devil!
By that Heaven that bends above us - by that God we both adore -
Tell this soul with idleness full if, I were to fashion here a bull,
It shall ram you through your very skull, from which come such bores -
And eliminate entirely, the very skull, from which come your bores?
Quoth the Rogen, 'Nevermore.'

'Be that joke or sign of parting, actor of fiend!'  I shrieked upstarting -
Get thee back into the emptiness and the Hollywood's endless bore!
Leave no small laugh as a token of that lie thy mouth hath spoken!
Leave my emptiness here unbroken! - quit the bust above my door!
Take thy laugh from my ears, and take thy form from off my door!'
Quoth the Rogen, 'Nevermore.'

And the Rogen, still staffing madness, still is chaffing, still is chaffing
From the pallid bust of Kesey above my chamber door;
And his belly has filled with demon's that still are dreaming,
And the lamp-light o'er him streaming throws his laughter on the floor;
And my soul from out that shadow that lies laughing on the floor
Shall be lifted - nevermore!

Edgar Allan Poe really thought a Raven carrying the memory of a loved one would be quite terrifying.  But he was quite wrong.  The laugh of Seth Rogen is far more terrifying.  Weeks of it would make a person rip their own ears off and poke out their own eyes.  

I say it is so.

I remember when I first saw him.  It was in Knocked Up.  No wait, it was in 40 Year Old Virgin.  I never watched Freaks and Geeks, I don't care much for either of them, less of course they are in cages, or in a Freak Show at some circus ground filled with the scents of cotton candy, stale peanuts, and elephant shit.  That way, you can see their sadness in its purest of forms.

Oh Rogen, that laugh of yours, reminiscent of a retard and that hick dude in Waterboy, oh how it fills me with such terror.  I thought you should know, so I wrote you that little spoof poem there.  The Rogen. . . I mean really, how terrifying would it be to see a raven fly into your room with the head of Seth Rogen?  And the only thing from his lips would be that laugh?  The answer is, quite terrifying.

I say it is so.

It is for this reason, that I, iR, declare Seth Rogen and his laugh to be a bit of cursed retardation.

Love,

Joshua.