A strange visitor appears at my door on dark dreary nights,
he claims to be Edgar Allen Poe. I think he might be, because of his big,
noisy black bird that he calls "The Raven" and I call the Crow.
He's dressed funny! Wearing a stovepipe hat, a large soft
gray bow tie, a black and white striped shirt, with bloused sleeves.
His pants are black knickers, with long white socks.
His shoes are rough black leather with large silver buckles.
His bird wears nothing but black feathers, and the bird talks.
Some times Poe doesn't speak, then at other times he speaks often,
and on those occasions, I can detect the foul odor of Jamaican rum on
his breath. He recites dark poetry and at times tells short stories,
and carries a large feather quill that drips dark scarlet ink.
I find him amusing at times, but then at other times he's quite the bore.
On occasions, he brings a host of ghostly friends with him. They silently
dance and cast shadowy figures on my walls, some tall and some small.
They bring despair, loneliness and apprehension into my aging life.
But, you know…when they fail to appear, I feel forgotten and unwanted
and all alone.
My only friend is here…in this sweet bottle of Rose wine, when the last
glass is gone, then I shall find myself all alone in this damn drunken
rhyme.
So I ask, what's an old man to do…keep company with such wretched souls or
live in the silence of one's own company and talk out loud to oneself, or
perhaps, you'd have me hold hands with Poe and dance in and out of insanity
for the rest of my time.
