Thursday, 5 July 2012

The Lament of the Grammar Nazi

I die, I die, my heart is torn in twain
Twixt many agonies. Be still, mine pounding heart!
Thy place lies not outside my ribcage.

My soul would be consumed amidst 
A fiery wrath were it not for the tears,
The tears I weep in shame and rage and pain.
Sweet melancholy, take your darkling hand from me,
For else my lament shall tear
My very soul away, and leave me naked
To bleed my lament upon unforgiving stone.

I weep for thee, poor abuséd comma,
Dear noble comma; thou who seeks only the love
And companionship of thy sweet lady, the printed word.
Alas, thou art torn from her arms,
Wrenched from your place by cruel, distant minds,
Illiterati, gods among their own,
Who care not for the worth of thy friendship.

Thy kinsmen mourn thee, sweet apostrophe.
Ye who lately cast yourself into obscurity,
Cursing and raging at the callousness of life
And all those who bear its weight. 
You left no sign but shadows dancing on your earthen grave
And unshed tears to wait on them.

Death's list grows long, his latest claims lie
As alabaster effigies; outcast, unloved, betrayed,
Cruel scorn heaps her laughing load upon their heads
And her shrieks do ignite the mourning pyres
Of we who miss thee.

The cause of thy sacrifice, I do not know, and nor
Do I try to fathom the wisdom that drove thee into the unent'rable veil
Of death. Forsooth, for all my weeping I,
Poor wretch that I am, am unworthy,
A mere sprig, a mud-blasted squire unfit to wield
The blade of his fallen master.

I fear this grief will end me.
If it be so, I cannot resist. Even those grey depths
Can hold no fear for me after the horrors I here witness.
The bright, bold word torn and butchered at a fool's ease,
The wrenching screams of prose, and poetry's keening wail.
Death. All is, all is, death.

The field is lost. The tapestry unravels as
Its threads unwind, the wailing weaver weeping
In the ruins; for without thee,
Without thee, oh forgotten comma,
Oh distraught apostrophe.
Without thee and thy kind,
We are dooméd all


  1. "...poetry's keening wail" indeed! And I did laugh out loud at the end. Who wouldn't?

    1. Haha, thank you! I was laughing at the ridiculousness of it all while I wrote this xD

  2. I could barely understand it, but I got the last five lines. A perfect rant against the condensed language.

    1. I'm sorry about that - I would have written this prosally, but poetry just seemed more fitting. Glad you liked the last lines though. I think they're probably my favourite part xD

    2. Yeah, prose would never have worked for something like this. Don't worry about me, though. It's my fault for not making sure I don't skim over anything.

    3. Hehehe, I assure you poetry is a minority in my posts - I'll be back to prose on Saturday ;)

    4. Don't worry about it. I shouldn't be complaining to you at all. My fault. Head Phil should be punished! *bangs head against wall*

    5. I say it SHALL NOT BE SO! *grabs Liam and tows him into the Tribble Pit* They will cuddle you to death instead!

    6. (Sorry, I just can't do these things without third person. So saying, here we go again.)
      "It will be so," wailed the Head Phil pathetically, allowing him to be dragged to the Tribble Pit until he heard the words "cuddle you". He began struggling. "No, no, no! Head Phil can punish his-self! No cuddling! NOOOO!"

    7. *CUDDLES!*
      Motherly laughter echos from the pit as Elorithryn rises from their midst, arms out stretched.

      *giggles* I couldn't help myself. :}
      (P.S. I like the poem Charley, though it went slightly over my head, but that could just be the fact it's bed time for me.. make that well past bedtime.)

    8. The Head Phil scrabbles at the side of the pit as he falls, managing to make a 72-point word before he vanishes into the darkness. His screams reverberate throughout the chamber as he is tortured without mercy. Little do his tormentors know that he has activated the voice command feature on his father's iPhone, which he had pinched the day before during a particularly boring conference. Hearing "AAAAAAAGHHHHHNONONONONONONO!" from the Head Phil, the phone says in its computerized female voice, "Searching internet for 'How to make pancakes' now." Liam screams again, and the phone asks "I'm sorry, I didn't get that. Would you like me to search the internet for *incomprehensible sounds*?" After another scream, the phone says in an annoyed tone, "Well, if you're so smart, you can do that yourself." Squirming violently, the phone jumps down and bops Elorithryn on the head.

    9. "Now wait just a cotton picking minute." Elo rubs her head and picks up the phone. She stares at it intently and then makes a Raspberry back at it. "What?" she looks around talking to no one in particular, "It gave me one..."

      Heaving a sigh she reaches out and grabs head Phil's arm. "Come on let's get you out of here and back into the real world." She pulls him up and out of the pit. "You're just lucky she didn't use," Elo glances around and then whispers really quietly it Head Phil, "the Goo Gun." The woman shudders.

    10. The Head Phil dissolves into paroxysms of terror. "Goo Gun!" he screams. "Googun googoo gaga gungun! Gungan! JAR JAR BINKS! Hahahahaha... Mesa ears so floopy mesa could wipe mesa nose with dem without tuggin' at all!" He flops, unconscious, onto Elorithryn.

  3. I... Wow. That has got to be the most poignant piece of Grammar Nazi literature out there. :P It's brilliant! I love it! Oh, the beautiful tragedy of it all...

    Oh, and, erm, also: Hello! :D I've been lurking around in the shadows of your awesome blog (like the horrible internet creeper that I am) for a little while now, but I thought I might come out into the sunlight and say hey. ^^

  4. Ehehehe :D I confess I'm a Tumblr user, therefore "asdfghkl", "idek", "lol" and various other phrases of incorrect grammar are most definitely in my vocabulary. Unlike some people, however, I know how to turn them off. Mostly. I still say, "I can't even." a lot.