Once upon a Wednesday dreary, while I typed, weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten Ork lore—
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a pinging,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my notification bell.
“’Tis some fake rumours,” I muttered, “pinging on my Facebook wall—
Only this and nothing more.”
Ah, distinctly I remember it was as bleak as December;
And each separate dying thread wrought its heresy upon the floor.
Eagerly I wished the morrow;—vainly I had sought to borrow
From my books surcease of sorrow—sorrow for the lost
40k Ork codex—
For the rare and radiant Codex whom the Mork and Gork name 8th editon
40k ork codex—
Nameless here for evermore.
And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each blue notification
Thrilled me—filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating
“’Tis some fakeBoLS rumour at my notification wall—
Some late unsoruced news pinging at my notification bell;—
This it is and nothing more.”
Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
“Okay google,” said I, “or Alexa, truly your forgiveness I implore;
But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came pinging,
And so faintly you came buzzing, buzzing at my Facebook wall,
That I scarce was sure I heard you”—here I opened wide the tab;—
Darkness there and nothing more.
Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before;
But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token,
And the only word there spoken was the whispered words, “8th edition Ork codex?”
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, “Is that a new Ork walker in this blury picture that clearly shows a conversation?!”—
Merely this and nothing more.
Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,
Soon again I heard a pinging somewhat louder than before.
“Surely,” said I, “surely that is something at my news window;
Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore—
Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore;—
’Tis the Spikey Bits copying and pasting old rumours and nothing more!”
Open here I flung the switch, when, with many a flirt and flutter,
In there stepped a stately Ork Rumour of the saintly Celestine days of yore;
Not the least obeisance made it; not a minute stopped or stayed it;
But, with mien of lord or lady, perched upon my phone—
Perched upon a notification from twitter just above my email for cheap ebay deals—
Perched, and sat, and nothing more.
Then this emerald rumour beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it jpeg'd,
“Though thy words be shorn and shaven, thou,” I said, “art sure no craven,
Ghastly grim and ancient Rumour wandering from the News shore—
Tell me what thy lordly leak is on the Russians Shops shore!”
Quoth the Rumour “Nevermore.”
Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,
Though its answer little meaning—little relevancy bore;
For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
Ever yet was blessed with seeing rumours on his facebook wall—
True or fake upon the sculptured bells above his news icons,
With such name as “Nevermore.”
But the Rumour, sitting lonely on the placid bell, spoke only
That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.
Nothing farther then he uttered—not a PNG then he fluttered—
Till I scarcely more than muttered “Other rumours have come before—
On the morrow this one will leave me, as my Hopes have flown before.”
Then the rumour wrote “Nevermore.”
Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
“Doubtless,” said I, “what it utters is its only stock and store
Caught from some unhappy dakkadakka member whom unmerciful Disaster
Followed fast and followed faster till its songs one burden bore—
Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore
Of ‘Never—nevermore’.”
But the Rumor still beguiling all my fancy into smiling,
Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of news, and bell and Facebook wall;
Then, upon the pixels sinking, I betook myself to linking
Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous rumour of yore—
What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous rumour of yore
Meant in typing “Nevermore.”
This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
To the fowl whose fiery comments now burned into my bosom’s core;
This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining
On the cushion’s velvet lining that the painting lamp-light gloated o’er,
But whose Facebook posts with the leaks gloating o’er,
I shall press, ah, nevermore!
Then, methought, the air grew denser, deodorant from an unseen censer
Swung by Seraphim whose foot-falls stomped on the tufted floor.
“Wretch,” I cried, “thy Emperor hath lent thee—by these angels he hath sent thee
Respite—respite and nepenthe from thy memories of good Ork codecies;
Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe and forget this lost 4th edition codex!”
Quoth the Rumours “Nevermore.”
“Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil!—prophet still, if news or abaddon!—
Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,
Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted—
On this Facebook by Horror haunted—tell me truly, I implore—
Is there—is there balm in Gillaman?—tell me—tell me, I implore!”
Quoth the Rumour “Nevermore.”
“Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil!—prophet still, if news or lies!
By that Holy Terra that bends above us—by that Emperor we both adore—
Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,
It shall clasp a solid book whom the Gretchins name 8th edition Ork Codex—
Clasp a rare and radiant peice of work whom the Gretchins name 8th edition Ork Codex.”
Quoth the Rumour “Nevermore.”
“Be that word our sign of parting, news or squig!” I shrieked, upstarting—
“Get thee back into the tempest and the local none
GW gaming stores!
Leave no book mark as a token of that lie thy bad research hath spoken!
Leave my Chrome unbroken!—quit the tab above my porn!
Take thy Gif from out my heart, and take thy form from off my browser history!”
Quoth the Rumour “Nevermore.”
And the Rumour, never flitting, still is open, still is
BS
On the glimmer ing tab of Chrome just above my top 10 Slaanesh paint schemes;
And its lies have all the seeming of a daemon’s that is dreaming,
And the painting-light o’er it streaming throws its shadow on the desk;
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the desk,
Shall be lifted—nevermore!
Space Marines (Rift Wardens) - 8050pts.
Vampire Covenants 2060pts. 
5300 | 
2800 | 
3600 | 
1600 | 
