The story thus far...
The Earth, it seems, in Haggis' dreams
is neither flat nor round
five-sided, tis, multi-dimiz,
or so Haggis claims to have found.
The ocean, howe'er have turned it from square
to a smooth-edged cubic, of sorts.
Tho' crudely defined by these blurred lines
o'er which the water flows and distorts.
One edge of this cubic, whose sides are unknown,
by geophysic constraints shan't yield,
extending its length with all its strength
to the end of the playing field.
There, donning third socks, in God's sandbox,
the players are gathered anew.
With clipboards in hand, they'll clear the swampland
and the limits of gravity eschew.
Then sometime later, a space elevator
they'll erect and connect with a tether
to that self-same Earth, the land of our birth,
to launch planes as light as a feather.
Sixty-three thousand, give or take a grand,
miles above our cranium,
a launching platform, like a ship will take form,
powered by pure Uranium.
And Izzy the Stoner (ever the loner)
will store there his secret stash
in the ventilator, till sometime later,
he'll exchange the whole lot for cash.
As Shapley gathers all that matters
from every topic and post
and weaves together that sacred tether
that ties securely satellite and host.
While Capt. Tim, on a posters whim
seeks Mars to colonize,
in a tangled mess caused by anyone's guess
crashes, and then dies.
And with a lurch, Charlotte Church
is joined with a flatulent band,
and the Babes Operatic, playing music sporatic,
that can be called anything but grand.
While Haggis, in dismay, lashes out at they,
that to Star Trek® their lives devote.
It is to his dismay that Spock's shoe size they
from memory can quote.
And here our mirth, like Haggis' Earth,
became multidimensional indeed,
for by events quite curious, the posting became furious,
and continuity we could no longer heed.
But from the chaos emerges, and on the elevator converges,
a cast of characters varied,
including Tenernot, Ort, a singer of some sort,
and Tim Robbins, quickly buried.
The well-digger remained, and Bottom was named,
he, the well-diggers' ass.
And dancing the hula, was our very own Lula
a charming grass-skirted lass.
And the lawyer, unnamed, and Tarzan, untamed,
took their place on the stage.
And Izzy was killed, tho with Selma's keyboard skilled
return'd to see a ripe old age.
And Willy-Nilly, as the thread got silly,
our composer decomposing,
like his ill-written tomes, lies dead in his home,
or so I am supposing.
Last edited by Shapley
on Wed Dec 30, 2009 9:55 am, edited 1 time in total.
Quod scripsi, scripsi.