August 7, 2000
On a midnight quite enchanting, when the rain was downward slanting,
I awakened to the ranting of the man I have pk'd before.
Tipsy and a bit unshaven, in a tone I found quite craven,
Poe was talking to an idle Mavren about his lost Lenore.
"This should be easy," thought I, as I crept over the floor,
"There is nothing I like more"
Soft upon the mud I treaded, calm and careful as I headed
Towards his inert plot on the dreaded Warrens' floor.
While the poet and man chattered, I made sure that nothing clattered,
Creaked, or snapped, or fell, or shattered, as I snuck across the floor;
For The Warrens are crammed with trinkets, curios and weird decor-
Adornments and mud galore.
Still Mavren fluttered, standing still as he uttered,
In a voice that shrieked and sputtered, his opinions of Lenore
While this mournful chat Mavren kept up, oh, so silently I crept up,
Then I crouched and quickly leapt up; backstabbing the unsuspecting bore.
Soon he was a mass of flesh, and a little blood and gore -
Only this and not much more.
"ACK!!" the drunken poet cried out, "PKER"S! EVERYONE GET OUT!
Never sat I in Warren's pking dead poets before;
How Poe wallowed in self-pity, over the lost Lenore,
While I snuck up upon him, and left his corpse rotting on the floor.
Then glanced I in his corpse. Nothing of value, what a snore.
Back inside the shadows I crept, waiting for people I abhor,
Future corpses on the floor.