The Agent

Hey WDCers! The point of this contest is NOT to be creative!!! That's right!

Rules:
Make it something I've seen before, but DO NOT plagiarize!
I will accept old and new work, but new work is suggested.
Include a word count- the limit is 1,500 words.
Keep it 13+ and under please.
Please post in bitem format.
Have fun!

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The Agent

A Blatant Rip-Off of Edgar Allen Poe's "The Raven"

By (More or Less) Indelibleink

(Author's Note: 18 stanzas comprise the "real" Raven. For the sake of
brevity - not to mention my sanity - only select stanzas are satirized).

Once upon a midnight dreary, after writing great stuff I was quite weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of impressive lore,
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of someone gently rapping, rapping at my own front door.
“’Tis some visitor,” I muttered, “tapping at my own front door-
Probably my neighbor, and nothing more.”

Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December,
Not January or not even November, as I spilled Cap’n Crunch upon my floor.
Eagerly I wished it was tomorrow, for if it was - then I might borrow
From one of my friends a six-pack to quell the sorrow – sorrow for my writings that I adore-
For my rare and Pulitzer-grade writing, whom the critics would soon adore-
And all would praise me for evermore.

And the silken sad uncertain rustling, of my literary agent out there hustling,
Thrilled me – filled me with visions of riches – the likes of which I’d not seen before;
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating,
Perhaps my agent entreating entrance at my own front door-
My faithful agent entreating entrance at my own front door,-
Must be good news, that’s what’s in store.

Presently, eagerness grew stronger, waiting - I wanted to no longer,
“Agent,” said I, “’tis with great impatience I implore;
But the fact is I was napping – awakened by your tapping,
And was you, your boom box rapping, rapping outside my own front door,
So loud I could barely hear you," in hand with ball bat, I opened my own front door,-
“You’d better have good news, and nothing more.”

Deep into the darkness peering, with an expression that hinged upon searing,
In the shadows he was - at me - leering and I implored that he stay there no more.
Then the silence abruptly broken, words from the agent would be spoken,
Hoped to God that he was jokin’, my spirit not be broken, he spoke words I’d soon abhor,
This he whispered, and an echo murmured, back the words, “Your writing’s poor.”
At first surprised, but then I swore. (And after that I slammed the door).

Back into my house turning, all of my soul within me burning,
Soon again I heard a tapping, quite a bit louder than before.
"Surely," said I, "that is something at my window pane:
Let me see - as to stay sane, who the heck it is, and this mystery I'll explore"-
I composed myself for just a moment, went to the window - don't really know what for;-
'Twas my agent who said, "I'm back for more."

Open wide I flung the shutter, knocking over my jar of peanut butter,
In walked my agent, guess he preferred the window to the door;
A considerable racket made he; no time wasted by he;
Very much annoyed, I pushed him toward my own front door-
He looked straight at me and said that, "Reading your work is quite a chore-"
On a scale of one-to-ten, you're about a four."

I stood silent for a moment, and observed my agent callously smiling,
At that moment wishing he was away on some distant shore.
Though my manner was behavin', it was a good review that I was cravin',
But it was quickly apparent it was only bad news that was in store-
"Tell me: what on earth must I do to raise such an ugly score?"
He said, "Try a ghost writer, or you'll stay stuck on four."

"I think now we should be parting, agent or fiend," I shrieked, upstarting-
You'd better make the wise choice and get your rear out my door!"
I knew that this soul laden, must be an idiot just masqueradin'-
And my respect for him was fadin', and his critiquing ability poor!
"One last chance to change your rating, before I push you out the door!"
Quoth the agent, "Nevermore."

And the agent, never budging, versus me the writer, ever begrudging
For now it is common every night during restless sleep, I snore;
Now my eyes have lost their gleaming, and it is difficult to continue dreaming.
My house now littered with all of his critiques strewn on the floor;
And my soul that begs success and good fortune will be denied - nevermore!

THE END

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words: 749