Ah, distinctly I remember it was the month before November,
And each Raw roster member cried for quality writing and nothing more.
Eagerly I viewed tomorrow; - Smackdown’s ratings caused no sorrow
From the storylines we borrowed – from ECW’s former merchant of Hardcore -
For the crew was black and blue and the Hulkster tired too of going to the Australian Tour
So Hogan left here evermore

Monday, Hunter had a corpse and stuck her, Booker T cried out “Sucka”
Thrilled me - filled me with a confusion never felt before;
So that now, there still was knocking, I stood and swaggered (I call it 'walking’)
''Tis Howard Finkle trying to enter - enter at my office door -
Some OVW talent entreating entrance at my office door; -
This it is, and nothing more,'

Presently my head grew large, from praise heard from JR and the Sarge ,
'Sir,' said I, 'or Madam, truly your viewership I implore;
But what you want is not what I’m selling, and all these storylines we’re telling,
Just adds to Hunter’s head that’s swelling, swelling Monday night on Raw,
I have AOL and sure I heard you' – I have heard it all before; -
The Show’s writing  is not that poor.

The internet was full of whiners, I gave them Nash and Scotty Steiner,
Doubting Vince?  No one ever booked Murder/Rape as an angle before
But the silence was unbroken, and the critics were outspoken,
And the only word there spoken was the chanted word, 'Bore!'
This I whimpered, and sent Bischoff to take the heat some more,
as payback for those Monday Wars.

The 90’s gone and the tide is turning, The resentment from the XFL still burning,
Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.
'Surely,' said I, 'no need for concern;
These underlings never learn to stay away from the boss’ door
Let my 'heart’ be strong a moment and this mystery explore; -
'Tis Kevin Kelly and nothing more!'

Open here I flung my pen, with anger mounting and then.
In there stepped an angered fan, standing at my office door.
Not the slightest complaint made he; not an instant stopped or stayed he;
But, with the stiffness of Katie Vick, leaned beside my office door -
leaned upon a bust of Andre just beside my office door -
leaned, and stared, and nothing more.

Then this 'mark’ beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
By referencing my dominance through the ECW shirt he wore,
'Though thy art be long and gone, ,' I said, 'Philly was just a pawn.
That Bingo Hall stands dark and dim a piece of wrestling’s fickle lore -
New Jack, Sandman and the rest – forgotten worse than Pauly Shore'
Quote the mark, 'Raw is Snore.'

Much I marvelled this ungainly smark to hear complaints so plainly,
Thought my answer held much meaning – it’s just cynicism that we’ve heard before;
For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
Ever yet was blessed with seeing what the writers had in store -
Accusation of a murder then a video to further this angle from the week before,
Quote the mark  'Raw is Bore.'

But the fan, sitting there, recalling the days he respected Flair,
That one show – as if it made...a difference,  Raw would never fade
Nothing further did he speak – the weekly ratings were...well, weak -
Till I scarcely more than shrieked 'Other shows have shocked before -
Oh tomorrow – if you don’t believe me, watch Six Feet Under, don’t get sore.'
Then the mark said 'Raw needs More.'

Startled at the stillness broken by a reply so aptly spoken,
'Doubtful,' said I, 'that you would feel that if you were watching from the arena floor,
Thought of by some unhappy writer who was drunk on apple cider
Trying not to steal the zeal of angles from around '94.
Till the frustration of his wasted dollars, caused the mark to hoot and holler
”Stop putting crap on Raw is War."'

But the fan still beguiling here in Stamford, complaints were piling,
Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of the fan at my office door;
Then, upon the desk I leaned, I painted for him the current scene
Nitro did fall, I own it all  - I won the game, you see the score –
Still this angry, hardcore smark, this irritated fan demanded more
”That’s not what I watch Raw for.'

This I sat engaged in guessing, our ratings were quickly digressing
To the days when Tony Shiavane hyped what Nitro had in store;
To hide this point, I acted bold, I blamed the Hulk and Stone Cold
On Confidential, spouted stories of how your heroes were no more
But no one cared and instead harped on the terrible angles that they saw,
Not on that show – but on Raw!

Then, me thought, the fans grew denser, I wasted talent from Right to Censor
split the Dudleys, turned Brock Lesnar, All to make the ratings soar
'Why,' I cried, 'do you question me?  You watch what I think that you should see
Like promos from my 'son in law’!
Please, oh please increase the buyrates, and forget the days of Hardcore!'
Quoth the mark, 'Nevermore.'

'Mainstream!' said I, 'casual fans! – they’re the ones I want in stands!
clapping together eager hands – for superstars that they adore -
Tell this soul like words from heaven, where are the crowds from ’97?
Reality has finally set in – Worse than it ever has before
I would do anything to attract that crowd that once watched but no more'
Quoth the mark, 'You’re such a whore.'

'Be that true – then we shall part, It’s Montreal – and you’re Bret Hart
'This is my playground – not your “art”, I’ve seen your kind before!
Careers were lost, bones were broken, years of lies ever spoken,
The federal government came a poking! – Why fear a fan at my door?
Take thy remote and turn away, away I say – to channel four!'
Quote the mark 'Vince, are you sure?'

And the mark, never caring, still is sitting, still is staring
At the bust of Andre just beside my office door;
And his eyes hold the hurt of my years of slinging mud and dirt,
He grasps his ECW Shirt and hangs his head down to the floor ;
Despite his prying, pleading, crying – the envelope is pushed once more,
Until a voice from TNN rings out “No More”