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Swaggerin' home in raven fashion, feelin' rather bold and dashin',
Thought I'd do some poet-bashin'; saw this light above a door -
A sign that E.A. Poe was porin' o'er some problem bleak and borin',
Like how to rhyme with Ulalume, or find a maiden named Lenore.
And when I heard the morbid nutter mutter, 'Oh my lost Lenore!'
Presently the joyless mortal opened up his gloomy portal,
Eyed me with misgiving and inquired what was my visit for.
I said I was a poor old raven, tuckered out and seekin' haven;
Could I rest awhile upon the bust of Pallas o'er his door?
'The bust? Well, if you must,' he answered, clearly shaken to the core,
'By Jeez,' I mused, 'by flamin' golly, this man is clearly off his trolley;
I'll play upon his melancholy as I perch above his door.'
I said: 'Dear Brother Poe, I'm sorry I cannot really ease your worry
Except for some reward which you might bring from your provision store.
A piece of steak would do me nicely - even offal if you're poor.
'Corrupt and greedy bird!' he chided. 'Is my sorrow thus derided?
One who's lost a love, as I did, on the Night's Plutonian shore,
Regards your attitude as callous, so please quit the bust of Pallas,
Where you seem quite disposed to stay for half the dreary night or more;
Then pray be good enough to clean the raven-droppings from the floor
I stared him out and wouldn't waver. (Clean up the floor? Do me a favour!)
So finally I got to savour some small offerings from his store.
He fed me, but I kept on stallin'; told him I was past recallin'
Anything of his fair maiden, anything of lost Lenore.
I broke the wretched fellow's spirit with my croaks of 'Nevermore',
--Peter Veale
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