Commenter Tommmcatt Redux posts a comment that deserves to be a post:

THE PAULTARD

Once upon a midnight dreary,
While I pondered, weak and weary,
Over many a crackpot policy, and vaguely racist lore,
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
`’Tis some pollster,’ I muttered, `tapping at my chamber door -
Only this, and nothing more.’

Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak march ender,
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
Eagerly I wished for morrow; - vainly I had sought to borrow
From Obama ‘cease of sorrow – sorrow for our native shore -
For our rare and radiant country, from mountain hills to rocky shore-
Nameless here for evermore.

And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain
Thrilled me - filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating
`’Tis some pollster entreating entrance at my chamber door -
Or the dude that’s got the pizza entreating entrance at my door; -
This it is, and nothing more,’

Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,
Like Kucinich, dreaming dreams no wizened elf-guy ever dared to dream before
But the silence was unbroken, and the darkness gave no token,
And the only word there spoken was the word, `Reloveution!’
This I heard, and as an echo murmured back the word~ just to be sure~
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!’

Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,
In there stepped a greasy paultard of the saintly days of yore.
Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;
But, with mien of lord or lady, sat his fat ass on my floor -
Sat there in a Megadeth tee-shirt and sprawled his stuff all over my floor -
Farted, sat, and nothing more.

Then this hairy freak beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,
`Dude, y’all got your asses kicked,’ I said, You must feel a little tricked.
After raising all that money and going on and on like bores -
Tell me what is your guy planning? Will he go on like Carol Channing-
She was ninety, by the way, on her last cross-country tour-“
Quoth the paultard, `Nevermore.’

Much I marvelled this ungainly nerd to hear discourse so plainly,
For his candidate’s crazed scheming - little relevancy bore;
To that thing we call “Reality”, and no sensible human being
Took the doctor’s campaign seriously – but dudes like this upon my floor,
World-of-Warcraft citizens like this guy upon my floor,
Who just told me `Nevermore.’

`Prophet!’ said I, `thing of evil! - prophet still, if geek or devil! -
Whether tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,
Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted -
On this home by horror haunted - tell me truly, I implore -
Will he- will he run as an independent? - tell me - tell me, I implore!’
Quoth the paultard, `Nevermore.’

“You have got to be fucking kidding!” I snickered, widely grinning,
“I thought Doctor Senator Ron Paul’s candidacy was blessed by heaven’s shore?”
“Has he lost his divine majesty and at last become a travesty?
“Tell me through your white-guy dreadlocks as you squat there on my floor!”
Quoth the paultard, “Nevermore”.

Be that word our sign of parting, dweeb or fiend!’ I shrieked upstarting -
`Get thee back into the tempest and the Night’s Plutonian shore!
Leave no greasy Snicker’s wrapper as a token of those things thou here hast spoken!
Leave my loneliness unbroken! – get your ass up off my floor!
Spray this Lysol where you sat, and take thy form back out my door!’
Quoth the paultard, slightly whining, You’re a statist! Oh, and also Nevermore!

And the paultard, after flitting, somewhere outside a 7-11 is sitting,
Sitting there and mumbling insane inanities by the score,
As for Paul, he’s not still running, though his concession speech was cunning,
And left you thinking he maybe just might step up again before November 4,

But here’s hoping:

“Nevermore”