Previous Challenge Entry (Level 3 - Advanced)
Topic: SKULDUGGERY (09/01/16)
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TITLE: What Was I Thinking to Open The Door? | Previous Challenge Entry
By Harriett Ford
09/07/16 -
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It was on a midnight dreary while I nodded, somewhat weary,
over many a curious story penned by Edgar Allen Poe.
Suddenly there came a knocking, knocking at my front-room door.
Tis some visitor, I muttered. Merely this and nothing more. Here I opened wide the door.
(What was I thinking to open my door at that hour? No one visits at midnight. And who uses a word like tis anyway?)
In hopped, not a stately raven, not a black and stately raven,
In hopped nothing but a black and balding crow,
And it eyed me with a look that seemed to say, I know, I know.
Can you tell me Sir, I asked it, the same question asked by Poe,
Tell me what your lordly name is on this Night's Plutonian Shore?
(Plutonian has nothing to do with Pluto, but I couldn't help speaking in Poe.)
And he answered with a eye that seemed to say, I know, I know
Quoth that ugly, balding black bird with such voice I've never heard,
(Quoth means said in case, like me, you rarely ever use the word)
"Ain't no moe," said he (I'm quoting) and again he said, "No moe."
Here he hopped across the floor, and he dared to perch upon a bust which sat beside my chamber door.
(Actually the bust was a Styrofoam head used as a perch for one of my hair pieces.)
Tell me now, you ghastly creature, tell me something I implore.
What skulduggery you're up to, on this night's Plutonian shore.
But that ugly balding creature, answered as he had before,
Turned his beady eyes upon on me with that look that said I know,
Answered me, so unsuspecting, with the simple words: No moe.
And like Edgar's bird he's sitting, never flitting, never flitting
on the pallid Styrofoam above my chamber door.
Oh and you should see the mess he's making on the floor!
So I grabbed a broom and chased him, squawking, out my front-room door.
Git you creature, ghastly, gaunt ungainly creature, and come back never more!
Quoth he as stopped outside to perch upon my garden hoe,
"I've no quarrel with classic poets such as Edgar Allen Poe. It's the hacks with silly ditties writing drivel, sludge and gore, writers penning sludge and drivel, I'll inspire never more."
Give that bird a fried potato for his pledge to muse "no moe."
And you're glad there ain't no moe!
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