Once upon a midnight dreary, as I finished, eyesight bleary,
Yet again the seventh book of collected Randland lore,
Eagerly wished to continue, vainly craving just one word new
Just one tiny little clue of what might be in store,
A prologue or synopsis, the merest crack beneath the door.
Only this, and nothing more.

With sinking heart then I remember, the book’s not due til near November.
Months of waiting stretch before me like the ocean’s farthest shore.
Then my reverie was broken, from contemplation I was woken,
A word I thought was spoken from beyond my chamber door.
So I listened for a moment, thinking I’d been wrong for sure.
"Tis the wind, and nothing more."

Returning to my doleful musing, the seventh book once more perusing,
Soon again I hear a whisper, somewhat louder than before.
"Let me in", it said, entreating, and with heart in terror beating,
I rose and stood repeating "Twas the wind I heard before."
In vain I tried to tell myself I should not go to explore.
"Just the wind, and nothing more."

Yet a doubt within my breast burned, and I slowly to the door turned
With growing fear and trepidation, did I walk across the floor.
And then the door I opened wide, and peered into the gloom outside
And at first the shadows hide the figure lurking at my door.
Then I saw a man just standing, though the light was very poor.
Merely standing, nothing more.

Speaking softly he did inquire, "May I come in, and share your fire?"
And awaiting no reply he calmly stepped inside my door.
And then at last I saw his face, and my poor heart again did race,
For standing in my humble place, right there on my very floor
Was the author of that series I’d been reading just before,
Robert Jordan, King of Tor.

Attempting to abate my quaking, to make my hands give up their shaking,
I took his coat and hung it on the hook beside the door.
He took his ease upon my chair, and I wondered, did I dare
Ask if he would consent to share some small detail not heard before?
Or would his mocking answer be more torment to endure?
Be only "RAFO" as before?

And as he sat there looking weary, I steeled my will and made my query
Prepared to withdraw it quickly if it seemed to make him sore:
"Your works, I vow, my soul inspire, and it would be my heart’s desire
If of you I could inquire and receive in turn an answer plain and sure
To but a single question about these works that I adore --
Only one, and then no more."

After what seemed to me the longest while, he gave a slightly wistful smile,
And his look of resignation said he’d trod this path before.
Then the silent pause was broken by his reply so softly spoken,
And he nodded once in token that our bargain was secure.
"Alright", he said. "One answer, since you let me in the door,
But only one, and then no more."

And suddenly the questions varied that my mind so oft had harried
Waged within my fevered brain a kind of desperate little war.
Eagerly each shouted, "Choose me!", only serving to confuse me,
As he continued to peruse me, wondering what I waited for.
Wondered why the question did not from my lips outpour,
The single question, and no more.

But then at last one query vital broke free from the mad recital
And the question I must ask him came at last up to the fore.
"Mr. Jordan, there’s been much debate, across the Internet of late,
Of Demandred’s current name and state, and I ask of you therefore,
To tell me who he is?" Then his face a smile wore.
Quoth the Author, "Tam Al’Thor."