Summary: This is T.S. Eliot's The Naming of Cats rewritten to be about Wraith and their names. I'm very much a latecomer to SGA, but I immediately fell for those campy, vampy Wraith. Steve in his cell reminded me in many ways of a cat in a cage. His apparent retreats into meditation, and the way he and other Wraith refuse to give their names, made me think of Eliot's poem. And aliens made me muck around with it.
Disclaimer: Do parodies need disclaimers? I own nada.
The Naming of Wraith
The Naming of Wraith is a job for a hero:
It isn't just one of your cocktail hour games;
You may think at first I'm as crazy as Nero
When I tell you, a Wraith must have THREE DIFFERENT NAMES.
First of all, there's the name that the humans bestow,
Such as Steve or Bob, or Lisa or Bruce,
Such as Michael or Todd, or Jane or John Doe --
All sensible names for everyday use.
There are fancier names if you think they sound swisher,
Some for the gentlemen, some for the dames:
Such as Azrael, Mephisto, Frank Furter, Morticia --
But all of them sensible everyday names.
But I tell you, a Wraith needs a name that's unique,
And glam, thank you ma'am, and more dignified,
Else how under duress can he keep his hair sleek,
Or groom his moustaches, or cherish his pride?
Names of this kind, I can give you a list of,
Such as Growlhisser, Snarlpreen, or I Am Your Death,
Such as Venus the Butcher, or else Royally Pissed Off --
Names that speak of the queenly machismo of Wraith.
But above and beyond there's still one name left over,
And that is the name that you never will guess;
The name that no torture or trick can discover --
But THE WRAITH HIMSELF KNOWS, and will never confess.
When you notice a Wraith in profound meditation,
The reason, John Sheppard, is always the same:
His mind is engaged in a rapt contemplation
Of the thought, of the smell, of the taste of his name:
His ineffable effable
Effin' ineffable
Deep and unspeakable singular Name.