The Oilman (with apologies to E.A. Poe)

[NeoGreen]

The Oilman

Living in a future dreary, I pondered history, weak and weary,
Of many a quaint and curious forgotton machine of yore,
While I pondered, nearly grasping, suddenly there came a cranking,
As of something gently sapping, sapping the Earth's great core.
" 'Tis some driller," I muttered, "sapping at the diminished core;
Only this, and nothing more."


Ah, distinctly I remember, it was in a cold December,
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
Eagerly I wished the morrow; vainly I had sought to borrow
From my memory's surcease of sorrow, sorrow for the lost vigor,.
For the rare and radiant oilmen whom the angels named 'Free Oil',
Nameless here forevermore.


And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each old and worn curtain
Thrilled me---filled me with fantastic terrors never felt past yore;
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating,
" 'Tis some driller entreating entrance at the diminished core,
Some late driller entreating entrance at the diminished core.
This it is, and nothing more."


Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
"Sir," said I, "It is your forgiveness I cannot instore;
For the fact is, you were tapping, and oh so eagerly were you sapping,
And so fanatically were you cranking, tapping at the Earth's great core,
That I scarce was sure I would ensue you." Here I opened wide the door;---
Silence there, and nothing more.


Deep into the vacuum was I peering, long I stood there, wondering, fearing
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortals ever dared to dream a'more;
But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token,
And the only this there spoken was the whispered words,
Free Oil?, This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the words,
"Peak Oil!" Merely this, and nothing more.


Back into the chamber turning, all my soul wanting the burning,
Soon again I heard a cranking, something louder than before,
"Surely," said I, "surely, that is something beyond my window lattice.
Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore.
Let my heart be still a moment, and this mystery explore.
" 'Tis the wind, and nothing more."


Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,
Out there stood a stately oilman, of the notorious days of yore.
Not the least obelisk made he; not a minute pump or derrick have he;
But with mien of lord or lady, perched atop the dimished core.
Perched upon the busted Texas, just ouside my chamber door,
Perched, and sat, and nothing more.


Then this iron frame beguiling my sad fancy into crying,
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,
"Though thy be wrecked and caved'in thou," I said, "art sure not a crankin',
Ghastly, grim, and ancient oilman, sapping in vain at the dimished core.
Tell me what thy lordly name was on this Night's Plutonian shore."
Quoth the oilman, "Peak Oil."


Much I marvelled at this dialog faintly, discoursed to me so plainly,
Though its answer little meaning, little relevancy did it bore;
For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
Ever yet was blessed with seeing his chamber warmed within like'n days of yore,
Nor Bird nor beast upon the ruptured breast above the dimished core,
With such name as "Peak Oil."


But the oilman, sitting lonely on that busted flat, spoke only
That one fact, as if his soul in that one stack he did outpour.
Nothing further from him sputtered; not a barrel then there cluttered;
Till I scarcely more than muttered, "Our great friends have flown before;
On the morrow I will leave Thee, as our hopes have flown before."
Then the oilman said, "Peak Oil."


Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
"Doubtless," said I, "what it utters is its only stock and store,
Wrought by some deadly master, whom unmerciful disaster
Followed fast and followed faster, till his songs one burden bore,---
Till the dirges of his hope that melancholy burden bore
Of "Peak,..Peak Oil."


But the oilman still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling,
Straight I wheeled a rock through window all busted and poor;
Then, upon an old cushion sinking, I betook myself to linking
Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous derrick of yore --
What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt and ominous derrick of yore
Meant in croaking "Peak Oil."

Thus I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
Of the foul, fiery blood no longer burning within any chamber's core;
This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining
On the worn cushion's velvet lining that the lamplight gloated o'er,
But whose velvet violet lining with the lamplight gloating o'er
How shall we express, ah, Peak Oil!


Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
Swung by seraphim whose footfalls tinkled on the tufted floor.
"Wretch," I cried, "thy God hath lent thee -- by these angels he hath
Sent thee respite---respite and nepenthe from thy memories of the days of yore!
Quaff, O quaff this kind nepenthe, and forget this lost Petrol!"
Quoth the oilman, "Peak Oil!"


"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil!--prophet still, if machine or devil!
Whether tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,
Desolate, yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted--
On this home by horror haunted--tell me truly, I implore:
Is there--is there balm in Gilead?--tell me--tell me I implore!"
Quoth the oilman, "Peak Oil."


"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil--prophet still, if machine or devil!
By that heaven that bends above us--by that God only we adore--
Tell this soul with sorrow laden, if, within the distant Aidenn,
It shall grasp fact called fiction, whom the angels named Free Oil---
Embrace the rare and not God given, whom the angels named Free Oil?
Quoth the oilman, "Peak Oil."


"Be that said be our sign of parting, machine and fiend!" I shrieked, upstarting--
"Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore!
Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!
Leave my loneliness unbroken! -- quit the busted breast I adore!
Take thy bit from out my heart, and take thy form from off Earth's core!"
Quoth the oilman, "Peak Oil."


And the oilman, no longer cranking, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the pallid state of Texas just outside my chamber door;
And his bits are all a'done reeming for demons that were scheming.
And the moonlight o'er him streaming throws his shadow upon an Earthen core;
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
Shall be lifted---nevermore!

[mistertrickster]

1. This is funny . . . thanks for that.

Now if someone with Homer Simpson's voice could read it, you'd have a great audio file . . .