The Poe Thing
Poe didn’t really have a dad to mourn–
and therefore couldn’t do the Hamlet thing.
Thus it was girls for him — girls hardly born
before they met the Underworld’s Dark King.
Somber the song our angel had to sing,
whose heartstrings were a lute not quite in tune.
Under the shadow of a raven’s wing,
he wrote a soundless and a weighty rune
that only eyes as distant as the moon
would ever truly read. And those in charge
ruled him a vain and jingle-bound buffoon.
Their purse-lipped views they opt not to enlarge.
They pay him at the same degraded rate–
and for their inspiration calmly wait.