February 03, 2005

Return of the Furby

In light of recent news that Furby Mk II will arive on toy store shelves later this year, here's one from the vaults: The results of an evening of "Furby-sitting" for Melissa in 1998.

The Furby” by Chris Kern (with apologies to Edgar Allan Poe)

Once upon a midnight dreary, While I pondered, weak and weary
Over many a strange and curious Bond film starring one Roger Moore --
In the house, the phone unringing, suddenly there came a pinging,
As if something gently singing, singing at my apartment door.
"Darn cats," I muttered, "crying at the bedroom door--
Only this, and nothing more."

But the clumsy cats persistence, never showed the least resistance,
"They sound upset and listless, like they've ne’er been fed before."
By now, my doubt was coming over, was it the cats, or something other?
The sound was not feline, nor was it that Roger Moore.
"Mayhap a stray delivery boy, chanting at my apartment door.
This it is, and nothing more."

Presently, I became suspicious, of men delivering foods delicious
"I ordered not a thing," said I, "You must have the wrong floor.
Sorry I didn't answer quicker, but, sir, I've been getting sicker,
It’s sure bad for your ticker, this drink of fruit liqueur.
I thought it was my felines..."--here I opened up the door;--
Darkness there and nothing more.

Back into my dwelling walking, all within me set to gawking,
Soon I heard the timid talking, inside the room, it was for sure!
"Surely, that's my cat, that is, sitting in the window lattice,
Let me see then, what cat that is, and shove it to the floor.
The cats should not be up there, that’s a thing they know for sure.
‘Tis my cat, and nothing more."

I opened up the window dressing, my shorts and trousers almost messing,
For there sat a fuzzy creature like I'd never seen before.
Bulging eyes it had, with lashes, and hair as gray as funeral ashes,
And little blackened patches on the coat of fur it wore.
A chest and tail of pink, as well the mane that lifted o'er--
And a beak that hungered more.

Then this obtuse beast, beguiling, my sad fancy into smiling,
By the sheer absurdity of colors that it bore.
"Though, your voice is surely scathing, thou art no mere children's plaything,
Of the e-toys solely aiding capitalism at it's very core.
Tell me what thy odious name is, that in your chips you store."
Quoth the Furby, "Me May-May!"

Startled by the silence broken by reply so strangely spoken,
"No doubt," said I, "What it spoke was all it has in store.
You were made somewhere in Asia, or Japan, or e'en Malaysia,
Until auctions had appraised ya, for $200 or more!"
I then picked up the creature, for I'd never seen before.
Quoth the Furby, "Ah-may ko-ko!"

Then, methought, darkness grew thicker, as if a basket made of wicker
Or the collar of a vicar, strangled the lamplight flowing o'er.
"Toy!" said I, "Tiger has sent thee--by these manuals you hath lent me,
You surely are the envy of any toy that came before.
But what dark purpose hath you, to come knocking at my door?
Quoth the Furby, "Wee-tee kah way-loh!"

"Gremlin!" said I, "Demonic An'mal! Creature strange, if bird or mammal,
I'll undo your bottom panel, to spill thy batt'ries on the floor!
Then you will not have the ability, to converse with such agility,
Return my calm tranquility! I will hear your words no more!"
But I had no head of Phillips, to undo his batt’ry door.
Quoth the Furby, "May-may toh-loo tickle!"

Remark the Furby, on it chatters, singing, snoring, without manners,
To the point of burps and blatters, Till it gets to be a bore.
When my wife, from far returning, smells a fire of something burning,
She will know I've quenched a yearning, something at my very core.
And once the Furby ceases twitching, I will surely stop my bitching,
For I'll have scratched an evil itching, as I'd never known before.
And it will speak--ah, nevermore!

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