Poetic Justice
A Geezer’s Notebook, By Jim Foster
Every now and then, when the muse strikes, I take up my quill and pen (that doesn’t sound right) I take up my quill and quill a poem or two. But it is easier to take some famous poet’s work and improve upon it. I mean why wouldn’t you, its right there staring at you.
You will no doubt remember my Goldenrod which was an upgrade of The Daffodils originally written by William Wordsworth. Bill, with a few well-placed bribes around Queen’s Park, managed to get it anchored into the curriculum of the Ontario Secondary School System where it has remained for several hundred years.
I am in no way being critical of his work; it is quite lovable if you like that sort of thing. (Myself, I prefer dirty limericks) Those of us approaching our dotage had it drummed into our brains so often that merely hearing the words ‘wandered’ or ‘lonely’ and we immediately start reciting his work which can be most embarrassing depending on where you are at the time. I had a school chum who finally managed to get a cheerleader to join him in the back seat of his ’47 Monarch Coupe when he began ‘I wandered lonely as a cloud’ and she said, “No wonder you are lonely’ and went looking for some guy who quit school after Grade 10 and never learned the poem. But as I was saying…
I believe Edgar Allan Poe composed the original version of this classic the morning after he died at the age of 40. The cause of his demise has been attributed to excessive alcohol, brain congestion, cholera, drugs, heart disease, rabies, suicide, tuberculosis and other agents. That would do it all right.
Quothed While Raving, ‘Nevermore’
Once upon a frostbit morning, I did rise up from my trundle
Suffering bad the heebie-jeebies, tongue a-coated, something vile
Eyes all bloodshot, head a-throbbing, ears a-ringing, fell didst I upon the floor
What had stirred me from my slumber, not my bladder, though it bursteth, was a tapping, tapping, constant tapping at my door
Tapping gently I imagine, softly tapping, nothing more, but in my head it was a-pounding, pounding, pounding — straight tequila, Nevermore!
But the noise, so gently tapping, was a-booming, think of cannons
Bombing Moscow, Napoleon marching, marching bravely, marching bravely on to war.
Didst mine eyes then roll o’er backwards and my brain didst run for cover
From incessant pounding, pounding of some jerk upon my door
Didst mine eardrums split asunder, from the noise of constant thunder, straight tequila, Oh my God, sir, straight tequila nevermore.
To the door, crawled I a-moaning, ears a-bleeding, bowels a-rolling,
Fingers jammed into my ear-holes, in desperate hopes of stopping, stopping, that damned incessant painful noise
Alas without my arms to hold me, my poor head bounced from floor to ceiling, then bounced skyward and bounced again upon the floor
Forehead too, now a-bleeding, didst I nose-down reach the door
And to myself I then didst mumble, “Straight tequila, nevermore.”
Slowly reaching for the doorknob, head still hammering, hammering, hammering, tried to crawl up from the floor
Still it came, the constant rapping, rapping, rapping, at my door
With all my strength I yanked the handle, out I flew, face down and bleeding, face down and bleeding and so sore.
Far above I could see two women, kindly women, smiling at me as I lay bleeding, profusely bleeding, bleeding softly on the floor
“Damn, damn,” says I with breath a-reeking, “Why the hell are you chicks pounding, pounding, pounding at my door?”
“We were wondering,” one said kindly, “If you have found the Lord, our savior.”
I stepped back, well fell back really, “Is He missing?” asked I astonished, “Have you tried the Legion door?
“If he drops by, I’ll have him call you. In the meantime, stop that pounding, that infernal pounding, pounding, pounding at my flipping door.”
“But, sir, we’ve come to save you, save from everlasting torment, eternal hellfire for evermore.”
“Well ain’t that special?” I said quite clearly, then my bladder soaked the floor.
“Thanks for calling, holy ladies, but hellfire’s started, started when you whacked and hammered, hammered on my bloody door
Now bugger off before I shoot you. That’s right, I said shoot you. How dare you pound upon my door?
I’ll count to ten, you’d best be running or there’ll be buckshot in thine drawers
But since you want to do some saving, save this advice before I slam, before I slam this goddamn door — straight tequila, nevermore.
I wonder if I mixed orange juice with the tequila. No sense wasting it.
(Image Supplied)
