There are so many Obama fans who have written to say that I have not felt their pain, that I decided to write a poem (ahem!) to cheer them up.
As to comparing Obama to Arthur. . . well if you read enough Andrew Sullivan, it starts to seem appropriate.
The Passing of Obama
That story which the bold Sir Sullivan,
First made and latest left of all pundits,
Told, when the man was no more than a blogger
In the white winter of his age, to those
With whom he dwelt, new faces, other minds.
For on their march to westward, Obama,
Who slowly picked up delegates to Denver,
Heard in his tent the mockings of one Hugh:
For mad Hugh said he sank, like the Fitzgerald,
Which parody raced among the slumbering votes,
And cost his men much moanings for their king:
Then loudly cried the bold Sir Sullivan:
‘Ah! my Lord Obama, whither shall I go?
Where shall I hide my forehead and my eyes?
For now I see that change and hope are dead,
When every Tuesday brought a noble chance,
And every vote brought out a noble fight.
Such times have been not since the light that led
The holy JFK with the gift of gab.
But now the whole campaign is dissolved
Which was an image of the mighty world,
And I, the last, go forth companionless,
And the days darken round me, and the years,
Among new men, strange faces, other minds.’
And slowly answered Obama from the Times:
‘The old order changeth, yielding place to Me,
And Wright embarrasses himself in many ways,
Lest one bad sermon should corrupt the cause.
Comfort thyself: you are the comfort you have waited for.
I won my delegates, and ran the race which I have run
May holy Denver be my home! but thou,
Lest thou shouldst never see my face again,
Pay for my adsl. More things are wrought by ad buys
Than this world dreams of. Wherefore, let thy voice
Rise like a fountain for me night and day.
For what are men better than cordless Ipod or Wii
That nourish no i-life without interconnectivity,
If, knowing Obama, they join no facebook groups
Both for themselves and those who call them friend?
For so the whole round earth is every way
Bound by gold chains to our Might Cause.
But now cheer up. I am going a long way
With these delegates thou seest–if indeed I win
(For all my mind is clouded with a doubt)–
To the hill-gird city Denver;
Where in summer falls not hail, or rain, or any snow,
Nor Rocky hit ball falls short; but it flies
Deep-measured, happy, fair also with Elway’s brawn
And 1968 sorrows crown not the summer of me,
Whence I will heal me of my grievous wound.’
So said he, and campaign barge with votes and email
Moved from the brink, like someone was in charge
But still Wright wrought followers cry:
“And after healing of his grievous wound
He comes again; but–if he come no more–
O me, stop yon vile Queen in yon pant suit,
Who shrieked and wailed, like Rove whereat we gazed
On that Tuesday, when, winning the Pennsylvania fight,
She went on the Factor to do violence, friends
Of Obama, who should help him at his need?’
Then from Gen Y it seemed there came, but faint
As from the limits of their short attention span,
Like the last echo born of a Bose sub-woofer,
Apathy, as if some fair weather voters with one voice
Ignored both Obama and a nation at war.