'Twas the Night of the Blogathon

This will have to be the start of something for next year (next year?!)

'Twas the night of the blogathon and all 'cross the land
Every blogger was scurrying, to write on demand;
The keyboards were clattering away and aware,
In hopes that some publisher would read what we share;

The bloggers were all nestled all snug at their desks,
Ignoring spouses and children and other small pesks;
And I with my quill, bad prose for to write,
We'd all hunkered in for to scribe through the night.

When out on the street there arose such a noise,
I jumped up from my desk, lacking all poise;
Away down the hall, and into the foyer,
Ripping open the door, praying it wasn't a lawyer.

The lamps up high above the glistening pavement,
Gave the lustre of mid-day around our enslavement;
When, what to my blood shot eyes should I see,
But Hunter S. Thompson, taking a pee.

Drawing his name, all yellow in snow,
I heard for some minutes the sound of the flow;