‘Twas the Night Before Poemas

Source: Creating my version and borrowing some words from Clement Clarke Moore who wrote the original, "A Visit from St. Nicholas" from the 1983 version of The Random House Book of Poetry for Children.

'Twas the night before Poemas, and all through the House of Usher
All the creatures were stirring, and even a tell-tale heart to flutter.

The black cat was hung by the tree with care
In hopes he will come back with anger to bear.

The Masquerade guests were settled in their rooms
While Prince Prospero had visions of “Red” gloom.

Annabel Lee in her sepulchre and I in my neckerchief
Will just settle in our kingdom by the sea for a chilling wind to meet our death.

When out in the cemetery there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from my grave to see what was the matter.

Away to the mortuary door I ran.
Rousing it open, hoping not to be jammed.

Seeing Montresor beaming with a brick in hand
Gave me the knowledge Fortunato was left in the catacombs walled up very grand.

To what my clouded eye should appear,
But a rather large carriage with eight corpses so dear.

With a dark somber driver just so,
I knew quickly it must be Edgar Allan Poe.

More rapid than ravens his corpses they came.
He rang the bells, yelled, and called them by name:

Now, Morella! Now, Berenice! Now, Helen and Lenore!
On Glendinning! On Roderick! On Madeline and M. Valdemar!

To the ominous gates! To each gravestone!
Let Poe be! Let Poe be! Let Poe be known!

As a fog arose in the early morning dew
Swarming around them entering the carriage they flew.

So up to the drive the horses clopped in tow
With the carriage full of books and Edgar Allan Poe.

And then, as the moon beamed, I heard on the porch
Each step as they climbed not even a lurch.

As I pulled away from the window, I turned around
Through the front door Poe came in as mysterious as a cat not making a sound.

He was dressed all in black from his head to his toe.
And his clothes were all dirty as if he was walled up by a foe.

A ton of books he flung on his back.
He looked like a literary peddler opening his sack.

His eyes – how they darkened! His face, how morbid!
His eyebrows were winced like he had to tell us something to forbid.

His mouth was drawn almost like a frown 
And his mustache was black serving as his facial crown.

The candle he carried cast an amber glow.
The ominous light encircled his head’s features to show.

His eyes began to brighten, and he nodded his head
Allowing me to know I had nothing to dread.

He recited a poem as he started to work 
And filled all the stockings with his books not wanting to linger or lurk.

And placing his hand upon his heart
He bid me a Dupin “adieu” and walked to the door to part.

He jumped on the carriage with his corpses around
As he was rapping and tapping on the door to count all eight to be found.

As the horses moved the carriage away from the house’s door
I heard him exclaim, “Have a Macabre Holiday” with his raven uttering, “Nevermore!”

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