To "The Raven"

Merely, merely, on a midnight yearly,
I fearfully read Poe's poem, "The Raven,"
That bird rapping, rapping, tapping clearly
At his morbid soul—condemned as craven

By that feathered, blackened raven of stealth
Preying without mercy, always crowing
For the ebb and tide of his waning health
Contemplating his death-knell approaching!

Like Poe, my own Raven I can't ignore,
That bird rapping, rapping, tapping clearly
At my morbid soul and mind all the more,
Tormenting me severely, so severely!

During moments like these, I must confess,
I take Prozac—a bullet's too much mess!