The Raven
Once upon a midnight dreary, while I labored weak and weary,
Over an oil and filter change that I should have done yore,
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my garage door.
‘Tis prolly just Rad,’ I muttered, ‘tapping at my garage door-
Only this, and not my whore.
Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December,
And my drain plug washer had been lost upon the floor.
Eagerly I wished the morrow; - vainly consciousness was borrowed.
Just forty winks I beg, - just a quick nap upon the floor.
For the rare and radiant drain washer, I need a nap upon the floor.
No slumber for now, nor evermore.
And the silk-o-lene puddle, like that of Royal Purple,
Spilled me – filled me with lower back pain never felt before;
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I cursed repeating
‘Tis only Rad entreating entrance at my garage door –
A man-boobed visitor entreating entrance at my garage door; -
This it is, and not my whore.
Presently my back grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
‘You S.O.B.,’ said I, ‘your forgiveness I will never implore;
But the fact is I was napping, and so rudely you came rapping,
And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my garage door,
That I pretended not to hear you’ – here I opened the garage door; -
Darkness there, no Rad, nor my whore.
Deep into that darkness peeing, long I stood there emptying, then fearing,
Dreaming dreams of man-boobs like no mortal ever dreamed before.
But the silence was unbroken, and the darkness gave no token,
And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, ‘Whore!’
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, ‘Whore!’
Merely this and not my whore.
Back into the garage turning, my urinary tract within me burning,
Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.
‘Surely,’ said I, ‘surely that is a boob flicking my lattice;
Let me see this boob then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore –
An in-ie, an out-ie? A mystery any man would explore; -
‘Tis the wind and not my whore!’
Then this ebony bike was before me, but I was not smiling,
By the grave and ashy decorum of the countenance it wore,
‘Surely you’re not the ’08,’ I said, ‘I wanted color and they send Raven?’
‘And you say that Yamaha sent you? – this will not be believed by my whore.’
‘And you say your name is FJR? - this neither will be believed by my whore.’
Quoth the raven bike, ‘Nevermore.’
Much I marveled this ungainly bike to make these claims so plainly,
Though as it answered, its appearance was really a bore;
For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
Ever yet was cursed with seeing this Raven that sits at my garage door.
Of all the threads of constructive input, this is what is laid at my door?
‘Nevermore. I’ll just ride my whore.’
