Rowling’s Spawn*

At Hogwarts School did Rowling’s spawn
A stately treasure-dome decree:
Where Cash, the sacred stream rushed on,
Through vaulted caves with sunlight gone
    Down to a deep green sea.
So twice five miles of well-worn ground
With walls and towers were girdled round:
And there were castles dark with olden thrills,
Where blossomed many a money-bearing tree;
And here were stories ancient as the hills,
Enriched by new-coined words of sorcery.

But oh! That mesmerizing chasm which slanted
Down the green hill below the hard-bound cover.
A savage place! Unholy and enchanted
As e’er beneath a paper moon was haunted
By a romance novel’s jilted female lover!
And from this chasm, with ceaseless turmoil seething,
As Potter fans in fast thick pants were breathing,
A mighty tie-in fount, with spells was forced:
Amid whose swift half-intermitted burst
Huge contracts rained like wads of ten pound notes,
Or euros streaming back from loaded boats:
And ’mid the clanging coins at once and ever
It flung up moment’ly the sacred river.
The children tossed allowance with devotion,
To wish in bookstores, in that sacred spout,
And slothful parents joined in with a shout,
As Rowling’s wizard worked his subtle potion:
And ’mid this, Harry heard a hollow roar
Of educators claiming, “Kids read more!”
    The shadow of the dome of treasure
    Surged upon the spellbound waves;
    Where was heard parental pleasure
    Filling, glad, the vaulted caves.
It was a babble everyone could brook,
A morning T.V. cartoon in a book!

    A damsel with a Mouseguitar
    I saw in visions from afar:
    She longed to be like Barbie made,
    And on her ratty strings she played,
    Singing about a Rock star.
    Could I revive within me
    That prepubescent song,
    To such a deep delight ’t would win me,
That with music loud and long,
I’d build that dome, that magic spout,
That sea of dreams! that vault device!
And all who read should have no doubt,
And all should shout, “Far out, far out!”
His dreamy eyes, his media clout!
Weave a circle round him thrice,
And worship him in holy dread,
For he on fantasy hath fed,
And milked our foolish Paradise.

*Due to an interruption the author of this poem could not complete these rhymes conceived in a fevered dream. Our poet had extremely bad penmanship, and while his interrupter has been described as a person from Porlock, further review of notes reveal the words actually written were “Person: a Warlock.”

Such a dark and coersive visit was unwarranted. Although the poet was a bit of a “Muggle” in that he insisted David Copperfield was never more than a wordy Victorian novel, he had studied enough alchemy to believe that with the right magic formula, material of limited value could oft’times be turned into gold.