Author:Christine K. Rogalski (Soprano22@hotmail.com)
Title:  Carter At The Computer
Category:  Poem (Humor)
Spoilers:  None
Disclaimer:  My name *is* Chris, but my last name's not Carter.  I *am* 
a Libra, but I was born 10-6, not 10-13.  I have seen surfboards,but do 
not know how to use them.  Got it?  So I don't own any of his stuff.
Notes:  A parody of "Casey at the Bat".  I used this as a template for 
the Clinton scandal, so why not for the shipper-vs-anti-shipper debate.  
Suppose we were all looking over Carter's shoulder when he wrote a 
*brand new episode*...
Feedback:  Look, as Irish as I am (don't let my dad's Polish-ness throw 
you...my grandmother was born in Ireland), I didn't even get drunk 
yesterday (St. Patrick's Day).  At all.  So, a little feedback would be 
a nice belated substitute for a Guiness...

~~~Carter At The Computer~~~

The outlook wasn't brilliant for anti-shippers of esteem,
They lagged behind the shippers, despite having Carter on their team,
And when 'Triangle' shone with beauty and 'Rain King' did the same,
A sickly silence fell upon the anti-ship's with shame.

A straggling few turned off their sets in deep despair. The rest
Clung to the hope which springs even in the insane human breast.
They thought if only Carter could bring back some platonic stuff--
We'd put up with the show for a season more if Carter got rid of this 
fluff.

But Duchovny and Anderson, staunch shippers at this point,
Were not about to bow to anti-ships (who are probably smoking joints);
So upon that stricken multitude grim melancholy sat,
For there seemed but little chance of Carter pulling rank at bat.

But 'Two Fathers' was not shippy, despite some hostile jealousy
From everyone's favorite heroine, Dana Katherine Scully.
And when the dust had lifted, and after the airing of 'One Son',
Fowley had kissed Mulder and it seemed that his shipping days were done.

So from 50 throats (at very most) there rose a lusty yell,
It hit 5 decibels in the valley and hit 7 in the dell;
It was audible near the mountain and whistled through a pipe,
For Carter, insane Carter, was sitting down to type.

There was ease in Carter's manner as he sat down at his place;
There was pride in Carter's bearing and a wicked grin on his face.
And when responding to the cheers, he shook his head of white,
No stranger in the crowd could doubt Carter had an ep to write.

All Philin' eyes were on him as his monitor was flipped on;
All Philin' tongues applauded when his thinking cap he donned.
Then while the computer moaned and hummed and prepared to take his 
words,
Evilness gleamed in Carter's eye, as if he prepared to give shippers the 
bird.

And now the monitor fills with words like flying bats from hell,
About Mulder and Ms. Fowley, involving cake and wedding bells.
On and on wrote Carter,  about that witch and our Mulder--
"That ain't my style," said Carter. And he deleted each character.

From the anti-shippers (all fifty of 'em) there went up an indignant 
roar,
Like the beating of an irritated wave on a distant shore.
"What was wrong? What was wrong with that?!" shouted some one from their 
den;
And he might have had a coronary had Carter not started writing again.

With a smile of demonic charity, great Carter's visage shown;
He stilled the rising tumult, and with computer, continued on.
His words spoke of Scully with Skinner, together and doing fine;
But Carter grunted yet again, and deleted every line.

"That was good!" cried the anti-ships, and the echo answered good;
But one scornful look from Carter and the platonic fans understood.
They saw his face grow stern and cold, the ideas churning in his brain,
And they knew the next time that he wrote, he would not delete again.

The sneer is gone from Carter's lip, eyes cold enough to freeze;
He pounds with staunch conviction his fingers on the keys.
And now the words are flowing, and the word 'love's on the page,
And now the sentences are strung by the cruel, all-knowing sage.

Oh, somewhere in this favored land the sun is shining bright;
The band is playing somewhere, and somewhere hearts are light,
And somewhere men are laughing, and somewhere children dream;
But there is no joy for anti-shippers -- Mr. Carter has switched teams.