C.L. Edson's classic parody of Poe's 'The Raven.'
Ravin's of Piute Poet Poe
Once upon a midnight dreary, eerie, scary,
I was wary, I was weary, full of worry, thinking of my lost Lenore,
Of my cheery, airy, faery, fiery Dearie--(Nothing more).
I was napping, when a tapping on the overlapping coping, woke me grapping, yapping, groping . . . toward the rapping.
I went hopping, leaping . . . hoping that the rapping on the coping
Was my little lost Lenore.
That on opening the shutter to admit the latter critter, in she'd flutter from the gutter with her bitter eyes a-glitter;
So I opened the wide door, what was there? The dark weir and the drear moor,--or I'm a liar--the dark mire; the drear moor, the mere door and nothing more!
Then in stepped a stately raven, shaven like the bard of Avon; yes, a rovin' grievin' Raven, seeking haven at my door.
Yes, that shaven, rovin' Raven had been movin' (Get me Stephen) for the warm and lovin' haven of my stove an' oven door--
Oven door and nothing more.
Ah, distinctly I remember, every ember that December turned from amber to burnt umber;
I was burning limber lumber in my chamber that December, and it left an amber ember.
With a silken, sad, uncertain flirtin' of a certain curtain,
That old Raven, cold and callous, perched upon the bust of Pallas,
Just above my chamber door;
(A lusty, trusty, bust, thrust just
Above my chamber door.)
Had that callous cuss shown malice? Or sought solace, there on Pallas?
(You may tell us, Alice Wallace.)
Tell this soul with sorrow laden, hidden in the shade an' broodin',--
If a maiden out of Eden sent this sudden bird invadin'
My poor chamber; and protrudin' half an inch above my door,
Tell this broodin' soul (he's breedin' bats by too much soddin' readin'--readin' Snowden's ode to Odin)
Tell this soul by nightmares ridden, if (no kiddin') on a sudden
He shall clasp a radiant maiden born in Aidenn or in Leyden, or indeed in Baden Baden--
Will he grab this buddin' maiden, gaddin' in forbidden Eden,
Whom the angels named Lenore?
Then that bird said: "Never more."
"Prophet," said I, "thing of evil, navel, novel, or boll weevil,
You shall travel, on the level! Scratch the gravel now and travel!
Leave my hovel, I implore."
And that Raven never flitting, never knitting, never tatting, never spouting "Nevermore,"
Still is sitting (out this ballad) on the solid bust (and pallid)--on the solid, valid, pallid bust above my chamber door;
And my soul is in the shadow, which lies floating on the floor,
Fleeting, floating, yachting, boating on the fluting of the matting,--
Matting on my chamber floor.
-C.L. Edson
