Once upon a midnight dreary, clicking, clicking, weak and weary,
Browsing many a vile and bilious image on slash-b of yore,
Through the trolling, tired and phony, suddenly I saw a pony -
With noodly arms like macaroni, and a pastel-hued decor.
"'Tis some anime," I muttered, "with those big eyes that I abhor—
Only this, and nothing more."
Yet so heavy was my sadness, I was seized with sudden madness,
braving years of pony badness for a torrent of that mare.
Quick I turned with pirate scheming, to a Youtube channel streaming
to the phosphor brightly gleaming, vector art from everywhere.
Rainbow-coloured pony gladness, in the monitor's flickering glare.
"Just one show is all, I swear."
Pony followed on the heel of pony, pleasant was the feel of
ponies on the print from We Love Fine that soon adorned my chest.
Daymares took me on fantastic flights of fancy, and the plastic
figurines I'd purchased "for my niece" still lingered on my desk.
Half the ringtones on my phone were songs composed by Sherclop Pones,
Daniel Ingram wrote the rest.
Heretofore, I'd been laconic; yet those ponies, so iconic
(plus a little gin and tonic) had me writing fics galore.
Others, seeing me so Byronic, feared that I had turned moronic,
I swore that it was all ironic, as my fics grew by the score.
Soon my ships turned less platonic; soon I tagged them "sex" and "gore".
FlutterMac forevermore!
Far too late 'twas, when I realized I had struck a Faustian deal, and
tiny hooves would softly steal the reins that held my soul in sway.
And my stomach soon was feeling, like the remnants, still congealing,
of another Happy Meal, forebodings of the price I'd pay.
And at the pony gods I hurled the vilest curse I yet could say:
"Sweet Celestia, what the hay?"
"Ponies!" said I, "things of Hasbro!—atop the pyramid of Maslow,
By the grace of Leader Kibo, leave me browse in peace once more!
Haunt not all mine waking hours with thine pastel-coloured flowers,
Choreographed thundershowers have no place in Edinburgh!"
But the ponies kept returning, with pony plots my brain was churning,
With a never-ending roar.
And the ponies, always grinning, now I fear are just beginning
To drive my feverish brain to spinning ponyfictions evermore.
And my eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is scheming,
As the lamp-light o'er me streaming throws my shadow on the floor;
Pointed ears and nostrils flaring, in my shadow on the floor.
Ponified—forevermore!