I see three whistlers have gotten their due:
Sculpted in bronze and preserved as statue.
To them as they swiped and scoured for more,
It never occurred such pizzazz lay in store.
Nor how their scoops would change all for each:
They could've called Chaves and grabbed some good beach.
No, thirty-five years got Chels' to count sticks,
On top, that is, of slow torture by hicks.
Julian Assange is perfecting his Spanish,
Rankly accused of being too mannish.
Ed Snowden, at least, can breathe some fresh air,
As he offers the Feds a deal and a dare.
'Twas a great touch to add that fourth chair,