by Than Pence
It's as long as "The Raven" and nearly the same rhyme scheme. Enjoy!
|As I sit here poetry writing, the keys are tapping and I’m nail biting
Because it’s hard as Santa-sighting to follow in the steps of Poe.
What is the rhyme scheme? What does “surcease” mean,
And will I keep the content clean? I ponder for I do not know.
Yes, I’m fair and well aware that of everything I claim to know –
I’ll never be an Edgar Poe.
Oh, for surely, it should be easy to type up something cheap and cheesy
So I may read it and you feel queasy ‘cause its crap drawn from below.
How many in the past have tried? How many more have failed and died?
That poem has power, I confide, to take a mind. I’ll stop this show.
Why decide to quit right now? To stop this tame yet torrid show?
Because I am no Mister Poe.
Do not quit! Count stanzas present, make it equal, use words like “pheasant”
To make the rhyme scheme much more pleasant and to incur a special glow.
That glow can sit within the soul, as readers enjoy it as a whole.
Who cares the one and only toll is time that’s wasted ever so?
Is that correct, do not object, to statement that time’s wasted so?
It truly is, but please don’t go.
For it is his most famous rhyme, do read it well to pass the time;
Or till you hear the midnight chime, then to bed you certainly go.
Lucky, you are, for I am haunted by mocking rhymes that are unwanted.
I want to sleep but here am taunted by a scheme that’s done by Poe!
Is this a scheme that’s straight from hell, a magik spell, dear Mister Poe?
The truth is I may never know.
And what is a raven anyway? A simple bird, flies too and fray.
Why did he not just shoo it away? The reason I will never know
Though rather simply, I can guess, the bird did represent a mess
That lived inside his broken chest because he missed some dead, old ho.
Did I, abhor, just call Lenore, the dear dead mistress, a common ho?
I sure did for I’m no Poe.
Though it may have been December, it is hard to think, remember
Just what it was, that glowing ember, that drew me to the world of Poe.
In Zelda games, a poe’s a ghost. You shoot them down, leave them to roast.
You hate them but they hate the most and cause amounts of wicked woe.
Though only spirit, you do hear it, the ways in which they spread their woe,
For they say Zelda was the ho.
Herein typing rather quickly, continuing till you feel sickly.
Do not try to punch or kick me. I can’t stop. I’ve invoked Poe.
You doth think that I am lying and I should not continue trying,
Because it may induce some crying from your eyes. Do not say “no”.
Alas, I surely hear that you bleed freely from the ear. Can anything be said but “no”?
Given time, I think not so
But I mentioned Zelda for God sakes! Internal angst with mental aches
Because in my head, there, nothing bakes that will ever be as good as Poe.
But no, I find I cannot halt, despite the instances of fault.
I still continue to assault your life with work that moves too slow.
Even when quickly spoken, this putrid, awful, wretched, token’s terribly too slow?
Yes, it is, for I say so.
So why do you persist as if with problem? You cannot see this piece is wobblin’?
I’d just as well send out a Goblin, drawn straight from world of Poe.
He’ll eat you up and spit you out, because, your health, he doth will doubt.
Then he’ll go away and pout and will forever be your foe.
Yes, indeed, what you don’t need is some blasted, deadly foe.
They can only produce more woe.
Ack! That Goblin need be stricken! Hurry, type away! Do quicken,
For Poe, a Goblin, ne’er did stick in a story as primary foe!
The enemy, also, was not crass though it tended to kick your ass,
As Death, it wields knife of brass that pierces flesh, takes life for show.
Pray, do tell just what the hell did Death, in fact, intend to show?
“That life’s a bitch” says Mister Poe.
Now I’m whelmed by this daunting task! Like a Monster Cow drawn from the past,
By scientists who wish to outlast the present world with what they know.
Like I, they’re fools bred so fine but thickheaded and wish to tame bovine
Of which itself is not divine but rather a daunting task and foe!
The daunting Cow leaves wanting, now, a far less dangerous, common foe!
But is that found with E. A. Poe?
No longer haunting, it’s consuming. Over every thought, this piece is looming,
Like beastly claws ready for pruning: They’re meant to make my death come slow.
A slow death isn’t meant for me but the thought does drive away the glee
That will be present when done with thee, thee being work that sounds like Poe.
When all’s done and said, maybe years after I’m dead, will it even sound like Poe?
I’ll be dead. I won’t know.
Okay, this is getting long and it’s not, like The Raven, so sing-song!
I’d just as easily play some pong instead of typing in metered row.
But I can’t stop. No, not right now. I’m more than halfway done somehow.
This beast, no longer Monster Cow, but something more like a tender doe.
Content, herein? To lie’s a sin because it’s not a tender doe!
There’s nothing tender about Poe!
And so on this February weary, I’m feeling enveloped with the dreary,
And my eyes are becoming bleary as I try to finish and go.
To go, I mean, to get on with life! Enjoy the way it’s filled with strife,
Just like Poe thinking of dead wife. Oh crap, drawn in and here I go –
Yes, in fact, it seems that Poe is firmly packed wherever I go!
Maybe that’s just the way of Poe.
This stanza was added recently. It replaces one that brought no glee.
It didn’t reach standards set by me. It was pure crap. It had to go.
It was about some creature with hair that possessed an ability to easily scare.
I think I stated that it lived somewhere, but that doesn’t matter as now there’s a flow.
Yes, this tribute that I dare distribute now has a nice and more even flow.
It seems to please me ever so.
My own doubts have surely been expressed and now I feel, indeed, hard pressed
To unleash the work that is suppressed. It’s deep inside, so I reach down low.
There, I’ll grab at the inspiration that started this all with anticipation
And I’ll be left feeling gratification for finishing this scheme and letting it grow.
Yes, indeed, it surely doth need much time and grace to help it grow.
It’s faster now. It started slow.
And, herein, I’m at the end and find my wrist can’t properly bend.
Carpel tunnel’s hath just ascend from heaven or the hells below,
So do not continue to stick around. Go roam the Earth and walk abound.
Be upon a firmer ground and relate to all this terrible woe.
Why relate or contemplate about this weary, terrible woe?
Maybe someone’ll find it so-so.
Yes, I know this isn’t refined within, because in my head, there is a din;
A ton of words that rhyme too thin and make me want to forget about Poe.
But heart, it truly does persist, and defiantly breaks through foggy mist
That clouds my head so here is this: A tribute wrapped in a fancy-word-bow.
What is what that’s wrapped and shut inside a daunting, fancy-word-bow?
Alas, my tribute to E. A. Poe.