In The Shadow Of The Master: Tales by Edgar Allan Poe

Once upon a twilight teary, while I mourned so blitzed and bleary,

O’er my script which got demolished by a showbiz bloody bore,

Suddenly there came a dinging-“You’ve got mail!”-an e-mail singing,

Much annoyed with ears a-ringing, I decided to ignore,

And swilled another mug of suds, permeating every pore.

“’Tis only spam,” I muttered then. This and nothing more.

Presently with breath a-reeking, I chose to do some e-mail peeking,

Which rained on me a host of doubts that pierced me to the core.

For Michael wanted “ruminations,” and that filled me with trepidation,

He wished for thoughts about a scribe from golden days of yore.

A testimonial to this titan? But I had demons I was fightin’.

At least two hundred words, he urged. This and nothing more.

Now I felt my stomach burning, the hops and malts inside me churning,

As I remembered childhood learning, and volumes I’d explored.

Then my guilt it overtook me, Mike’s insistent plea, it shook me,

The e-mail I should have deleted could now not be ignored.

I thought somehow I must comply, for Poe who’s on a throne so high,

Deserves much thanks from such as I, and others gone before.

Thus I set off plodding, spurred by Michael’s “gentle prodding,”

Hoping I could yet discover sentiments that soar.

I imagined many noble words, and thought I glimpsed a great black bird,

Whose unforgiving glower drove me to an icy shower,

To find within the power and draw temperance to the fore.

Alas, the water only froze me and made my bald spot sore.

This I say to Michael C., I ask that you envision me,

A forlorn wretch no longer musing, in his cups from all the boozing,

Who shall soon be mute and snoozing upon the study floor.

Before that swoon I swear to you, I’ll quaff another brew or two,

In honor of courageous Poe, who threw open every door.

But I won’t open “gentle” e-mails. Not now, and NEVERMORE!