The Shmavens (apologies to Edgar Allan Poe. First appeared in the Weekly Standard blog.)

When the air about him thickens, a sweet sensation rises, quickens--
Heart a-quiver, Chris feels words Obamunist deliver legthrills he's not able to ignore.
It's all New Testamenty, really, churchy Super-Tuesday zealy,
He teeters on the edge of torpor, can't remember Hill'ry any more,
Then tears of joy, sprung all unbidden, glisten on his cheeks,
And flow full-bore,
And he leaves the final vestige of his fitness in a puddle on the studio floor.

Ah, the meretricious speeches Thomas Lauren Friedman preaches

(What felicitous ability to bore!):
The Chinese are our betters (no useless democratic fetters);
We are oil-addicted morons; we are greed-afflicted gorgons; oh and by the way, we're racist
to the core.
And still we overpay his bloviating by a thousand score--
And foot the heating bill for his great bastion ever more!

And golly how the mad unharnessed hose, awash with all that purple prose,
Fills the Dowdy unfulfilled fantastic fantasies of manly shores! 
Undone a bit by unrequited love, perhaps--or is it lust?--she takes her marriage tips from unwed priests
And if sometimes her heart beats so she cannot mine the wordsmith's ore,
And fingers others' words to make her language soar--
Well, never mind: It's just a girl she is, and nothing more.

Cosseting his Sully caput, he nightly ponders Palin's output,
O'er many a crazed and frenzied stream of spurious lore.
As he scribbles, nearly drooling, there comes a drumming,
As of someone's heart rate thrumming, thrumming at his condo door.
"It's the sonogram," he flutters. "At last I'll prove the truth about that hawkish whore-
And then I'll find some more to blame her for!" 

We wonder if they'll ever any of them be restored to normal lucid shores.
But quoth the shmavens: "Nevermore!