in a shirt that fit when less I weighed,
I washed my clothes iin the laundry room with a cold cemented floor.
And on that shirt that once fit
in black and gray was a portrait
of the brilliant scribe and poet who had died over a century before,
Of the horror legend known to all as Edgar Allan Poe.
Suddenly, hearing wings aflutter,
I glanced upon the window shutter
and thereupon stood a stately raven, like in the poem of Edgar Poe.
Only this and nothing more.
Quoth the raven, "He died poor."
"Who?," I asked, shocked that a bird
could utter more than just one word,
As in the poem by the author that I named before.
Quoth the raven, "The guy on the shirt you wore.
Please put it back on, I implore."
"I can't. It's laundry day," I said.
The raven then turned its feathered head
And with closed eyes said, "I made Poe,
A writer like you, but long ago,
And he had naught for his work to show
except an ego that was sore,
that type you'll have for evermore."
I asked, "How do you know I'm a writer, too?"
Quoth the raven, "I follow you,
I read your tweets (It's what birds do),
and frankly I find your plugs a bore.
And do they generate any sales
of Relic and your Halloween Tales?"
And so I said, "Not anymore.
I make a lousy book seller, you see."
Qoth the raven, "Listen to me,
Bring back the book The Odic Touch,which had readers wanting an encore."
"Then what?" Quoth the raven, "Write some more."
"But what about my writer's block?"
Qoth the raven, "That's a crock.
Youre writing now, so write some more.
Unless you want to be like Poe,
Who died broke so long ago."
I quoted the poem, "Nevermore."
Quoth the raven, "No one likes a smart ass bore."
Then the raven flew off the shutter,
"Damn psycho pills," I did mutter,
But thought of what the raven said before,
About how I, too, may die poor.
And now I'm finally deciding
to return to novel writing,
After Halloween, if not before.
And as for my dreaded writer's block,
Whether or not it is a crock,
Shall I hide behind it, I hope, nevermore.