Dr. Seuss meets Poe

Once upon a midnight dreary,

As I sat, all drunk and teary,

Reading many a volume from some best-forgotten bore,

As I nodded, nearly napping,

Suddenly there came a rapping

As of someone cussing and crapping, rapping at my chamber door—

“Tis some damned gangsta,” I muttered, “rapping at my chamber door.  I hate rap music—it’s what I deplore!”

 

Seizing a ballbat I crept to my door, threw it open, and yelled “Aha!”

There was nothing there—Humbug!  Bah!

Suddenly there came a rapping, as of someone gently tapping, tapping upon my window pane.

“It’s not a rapper after all!  It’s a tap dancer who’s come to call.  I hate tap dancers worst of all!  They’re quite insane, what a pain!”

So I crept to my window and tore open the drape, threw up the sash, my mouth all agape. 

 

Out of the night’s plutonian void jumped a pest worse than an inflamed hemorrhoid. 

‘Twas a bird—a black one.  He jumped on my desk, that crow did.

 

 

Taken aback, I let out a shriek as I gazed at his eyes and his sharp little beak.

“Devil!” yelled I.  “Thing of evil—what are you doing here?  For what do you seek?”

The ebony visitor peered my way with fiery reddish eyes for a minute or more,

Before he croaked, “Hit the floor!”

 

My nerves, they were shot.  My forehead was hot.  My head was spinning like a drunken sot.

I fell to the floor—I like it not!  I obeyed the bird’s order like a compliant robot.

Before I could think, my face pressed the rug.

I looked up, sheepish, and I gave a giant shrug.

“I meant to do that, you black, feathered lug; I wanted to closer examine a bug.”

I was very distraught—I needed a hug.  I had obeyed the bird’s orders, no more willpower than a slug!

The awful avian eyed me once more, opened his beak and croaked, “Hit the floor!”

Before I could reason, before I could think, I felt my face hit the carpet and sink.

I’d obeyed the blasted bird, just as before, and I threw a shoe at it, but it just hit the door.

I was mad at myself, I was furious—I was sore!

 

Every time that bird spoke, I took a dive, I hit the deck, I had to duck.

“What kind of bird are you, crow?  My life it does suck!”

“What power do you have over me?  What the—LUCK!”

Many months have now passed, since my life took this turn.

My face is red—not embarrassed—it’s carpet burn.

I fear I’ll continue jumping forevermore

Whenever the crow croaks, “Hit the floor.”