'Twas the night before Zeitgeist, when all through the fog,
Not a creature was stirring, not even a blawg.
The shingles were hung on the Web with such care,
In hope that Saint BusDev soon would be there.

The children were nestled all snug in their beds,
While unspeakable visions did dance in their heads.
And Ernie in his Treo, and I in my thong,
Had just settled down with a good Springsteen song.

When out in the Ninth there arose such a clatter,
(And not just 'cause the Supremes think us Mad as a Hatter).
On over to Howard's I clicked (without Flash),
Tore into the case, and turned down the mash.

It took a few moments, though I'm far from deaf,
for the file to load up ('twas a cursed PDF).
When, what to my wondering eyes should appear,
A lustrous dissent! And the word "blawg" so clear!

With a little old author, so lively and hot,
I knew in a moment Kozinski I'd got.
More legal than eagles, his sources they came,
And he chided and scolded and called them by name!

"Through these lengthy proceedings, this judge, if he's that,
based his actions on something right out of a hat.
Not a case, not a statute, not treatise nor tome,
Was cited to justify where he did roam."

As questionable authorities before the wild hurricane fly,
when they meet with sound precedent, up to the sky,
So up to the house top, and on through the smog:
"Not a law review article — not even a blawg!"

And then, in a twinkling, I heard in the land,
the wailing and weeping of Unlearned Hand.
As I drew up my head, and was turning around,
I knew I had run the cause right to the ground.

Oh why, Judge Kozinski? Your timing does blow!
Just 400, you know, will be all who will go!
A bundle of blawgers would give their eyeteeth,
to hear Larry and Barry and Sergey — (no Keith?).

Our hopes — how you've dashed them! The world now — how chary!
Of those at the end of your list they'll be wary.
Your nod to our presence, though lovely and fine,
Has put us, no bones, at the end of the line,

Of writers whose words perhaps warrant belief.
Your list does encircle our PageRanks like a wreath.
It has a broad reach, near as broad as the telly,
And leaves little blawgs in a heap sort of smelly.

We were clubby and pumped, a right jolly old meme,
With more juice when we posted than it might have seemed.
But a blink of your eye and a shake of your head,
Soon gave us to know we had much left to dread.

For together with those who think "blawg" is distasteful,
(And those who think words not in Webster's are wasteful),
I'm afraid that the finger is all that we've got,
From Google, re Zeitgeist — invited, we're not.

(Rick or Glenn, if you are, I just don't want to hear it.
There's already too much that's crushing my spirit.)
But I heard them exclaim, as they blawged late at night,
"If you're going to dis us, then link us — all right??"