On the eve of SummerSlam, speculation is running rampant on Cageside Seats about what is going to happen to our favorite stars. Some are grumbling that the main event features a geriatric has-been who usually does only one match a year going up against a part-timer. Others fear that the Divas will be further buried in the team three-way elimination match (BTW, shouldn't this happen at Survivor Series?). Still others feel that the PTP will overcome the Power of Positivity.
I know he isn't the head booker, but honestly, the man is such an easy target. So with that in mind I have revamped "The Raven" into a tribute to our favorite buck-toothed WWE Executive.
I give you:
"The Beaver" presented with apologies to Edgar Allen Poe
Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious match card filled with total bores –
As I watched RAW, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of someone gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
"’Tis some salesman," I muttered, "tapping at my chamber door –
Only this and nothing more."
Ah, distinctly I recollect – SummerSlam seemed like a reject;
And each separate o’er done match seemed even worse than the one before;
Eagerly I wished the morrow – vainly I had sought to borrow
From RoH surcease of sorrow – sorrow the ‘E won’t do something more –
For those rare and radiant moments that the ‘E does give us more –
Pointless dreams, and mothing more.
And the broken, sad, uncertain list of matches – main through curtain –
Scared me – filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating
"’Tis some salesman entreating entrance at my chamber door –
Some late salesman entreating entrance at my chamber door;
This it is, and nothing more."
Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
"Sir," said I, "or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,
And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,
That I scarce was sure I heard you" – here I opened wide the door.
Darkness there and nothing more.
Deep into that abyss peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no smart mark ever dared to dream before;
But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token,
And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, "Taker?"
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, "Taker!"
Merely this and nothing more.
Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,
Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before;
"Surely," said I, "surely that is something at my window lattice;
Let me see then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore –
Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore.
‘Tis the wind and nothing more!"
So open here I flung the sash, when, with a portly waddle – not a dash
In there stepped a buck-toothed Beaver with a camera held afore;
Not the least of damns did give he; not a jot did he acknowledge me ;
But, with mein of Lord or Lady, squatted above my chamber door –
Squatted on a bust of Sasha just above my chamber door –
Squatted, sat, and nothing more.
This brown rodent drowning my sad fancy into frowning,
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,
"I want to take to you a cleaver," I said, "Just because you’ve killed my Divas,
Ghastly, grim, and buck-toothed Beaver wandering from the Nightly shore –
Tell me when the revolution will head toward true solution –
Tell me when we get the types of matches we from NXT adore!"
Quoth the Beaver, "Nevermore."
Much I marveled this fat rodent to hear discourse so plainly,
Though its answer little meaning – little relevancy bore;
For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
Ever yet those matches seeing could their excellence ignore.
Yet this Beaver sitting on the sculptured bust above my door,
Dismissed it all with "Nevermore."
But the Beaver, sitting lonely on the placid bust spoke only
That one word, as if his sould in that one word he did outpour.
Nothing further then he uttered – not a whisker then he fluttered –
Till I scarcely more than muttered "The matches have been great before –
Someday soon he will leave th’ ‘Em and my Hopes can rise once more."
Then he chittered, "Nevermore."
Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
:Doubtless," said I, "what it utters is its only stock and store
Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful disaster
Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore –
Till Vince’s previous Hopes that melancholy burden bore
And rendered him to "Nevermore."
But the Beaver goes on drowning my sad fancy into frowning,
Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of rodent and bust and door;
Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking
Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous sign of yore –
What this fat, ungainly, sexist, buck-toothed ominous sign of yore
Meant in squealing "Nevermore!"
Thus I sat engaged in booking Diva’s matches fantastic looking
To rodent whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom’s core;
This and more I sat divining, with heart-felt pleas and tons of pining,
Sat on cushion’s velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o’er,
But whose velvet-violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o’er,
As I pressed great matches galore.
Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
Swung by Demon whose foot-falls thudded on the tufted floor,
"Wretch," I cried, "Old Vince hath lent thee – by the promises that made he –
Unfettered might he gave thee over contests that could be greater than before!
Quit, oh quit from thy position and we’ll have contests greater than before!"
Quoth the Beaver, "Nevermore."
"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil – prophet still, rodent or devil! –
Whether McMahon sent, or whether trolling brought thee here ashore,
Desolate yet all undaunted, on this bleak landscape enchanted –
Cagesideseats by Horror haunted – tell me truly, I implore –
Is there – is there hope at SummerSlam? – tell me – tell me, I implore!"
Quoth the Beaver "Nevermore."
"Be that word our sign of parting, rodent fiend!" I shrieked, upstarting –
"Get thee back to the obliviousness that the ‘E has shown before!
Leave no teeth marks as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!
Leave my fantasies unbroken! – quit the bust above my door!
Take thy teeth from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!"
Quoth the Beaver "Nevermore."
And the Beaver, always plotting, still is squatting, STILL is squatting
On the pallid bust of Sasha just above my chamber door;
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon’s that is dreaming,
And the lamp-light o’er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
And the ‘E lies in that shadow that is floating on the floor.
Shall it be lifted? NEVERMORE.
As always, feedback is welcome. And Zentrification I promise to post your request soon.
Feel free to check out my other parodies:
"Wake me Up When the Promo Ends"