Edgar Poe

there was a man i used to know
absorbed in Edgar Allan Poe.
he lived below me in the basement
and would keep tapping at my casement;

though this was the unpleasant part:
to hear him with his Tell-tale Heart
softly whispering, 'Lenore!'
outside my very bedroom door.

all night long his sordid Black Cat
howled, inspiring morbid back-chat
on such subjects as The Fall
of the House of Usher. All

he'd ask for, with much bravado,
was a Cask of Amontillado,
sipping it and looking glum
in The Pit and Pendulum,

where, on high he'd hold his beaker
and cry the magic word, 'Eureka!'
the waitress, name of Berenice,
would then bring something very nice.

you might find him at the bar
drinking pints of Valdemar,
then a goblet of Rue Morgue,
some of which he'd give his dawg

(which, astonishingly, liked it,
and all the more if he had spiked it
with a dash of lemonade
or some such alcoholic aid).

he would lurch towards the door
mumbling Raven's 'Nevermore!'
intent, no doubt, on making merry
at the local cemetery.

finally, in mood funereal,
he ordered his own Premature Burial,
which, combined with Loss of Breath
brought about the poor fool's death.

now above the graveyard swells
the sombre ringing of The Bells,
mournful Bells, hi-de-hi Bells,
scornful Bells and bye-ze-bye-Bells.

the working of his gruesome mind
upon his tombstone you will find:
'while posing dead by mortal seizure
i'm decomposing at my Ligeia.'

'tis said that one Man of the Crowd
had seen some writing on the shroud:
it read merely, 'all is woe,
yours sincerely, Edgar Poe.'