Lay, O Lord, a curse on press men, rude and churlish, sad, obsessed men
Who persist to query me on matters that they know I must ignore.
As I parry, neatly jinking, Tapper stares at me, unblinking;
No doubt he is thinking, thinking Robert Gibbs is short one oar.
“Jake the Malcontent,” I mumble, “never one to seek rapport.”
Of them all, him I abhor.
Yes, the fire’s now an ember from that long-ago November
When every media staff member bowed and scraped outside my door.
Confident, I held my pressers (Helen! Old as earth, God bless her),
Brushing off reporters–lessers, lessers who were such a bore,
Including Jake the Tapper, whom the gods named my bête noire.
From the start, we’ve been at war.
There! He rises, smarmy, sassy; I feel dizzy, bloated, gassy,
Sickened–stricken with the urge to swat this gadfly to the floor.
As I tamp down nauseation, purge my thoughts of his castration,
Jake the Tapper–this . . . crustacean–floats a challenge like a spore.
Yes, Jake Tapper the crustacean floats a challenge like a spore,
And it roots inside my core.
Shaken now, I face him squarely, caustic tongue in check, just barely:
“Scribe,” I bark, “or journo, hotly your aspersion I deplore.
Blurted out while I was wrapping–in the middle of recapping–
Just to get your mates to clapping, clapping because you’re plainly sore.
Well, be careful, sir,” I warn him; “you are swimming far from shore.”
Says he louder: “Lie no more.”
The rabble stand, and now they’re cheering; I hold my ground, erect and sneering,
Mulling whether it is possible for order to restore.
Eventually, the room grows still; then Knoller shouts out, sounding shrill:
“Robert Gibbs has stained his office and has much to answer for.”
Now his colleagues all repeat it: “Gibbs has much to answer for.”
Back comes Jake with, “Lie no more.”
“Leave,” I snarl, my stomach churning; “briefing’s done, we are adjourning.”
No one moves; I hear Jake humming with a backup group of four.
“Really,” I say, “really, you can’t . . . hang out here to do a . . . coup chant.”
But Jake just laughs to underscore they will dish me out what-for;
And so they sing a rap refrain where they dish me out what-for
From their slammin’ gangsta score:
Gibbsy doan wants ya fussin’ wid ‘im doan wants ya mussin’ wid ‘im
Wants ya to be a playa pushin’ single paya
So shut your faces ya know your places
Stay in the traces and ya’ll score some primo dope
And he’ll let ya stay inside the rope
Jake the Rapper, never droning, keeps intoning, keeps intoning
In the press room I abandoned, oh, a few months heretofore.
And that shattering refrain, I will hear it in my brain–
Evermore!