Late night in a bitter winter, as I proofread where my printer *
Cockeyed lines I’d launched at witless critic or poet-wannabe—
While I sat there long adjudging P/Q botches, tired and drudging,
Suddenly I felt a nudging, nudging at my trousers knee.
“’Tis some errant draft,” I grumbled, “budging at my trousers knee—
Nothing else is here to see.”
But the nudging still repeated, like some foe yet undefeated,
So I turned and gazed well over to the floor beyond my knee—
There stood a Penguin staring at me, as if ever boldly daring,
Not for ranks or titles caring, with his black eyes lock’d to me;
Not for fall of empires caring, in his sable eyes thou’d see—
Stood, and said, just: “Doo… Mee.”
“Ah!” said I, “Doom’s Harbinger!—From whom the messenger?
At least this note is less vague than what the last bird brought to me.
Now I know to ask such matters as when and how and where doom scatters
All ’round; skip mere patters like repeating thyself to me.
Else, I swear, thou’lt rue the day thou ever tried to go through me—
Plainly explain: ‘Doo… Mee.’”
“Friend,” the piebald bird exclaimed, “my very first two words explained
All I ever wanted or could want from a writer such as thee:
Verses as once made a Raven famous here and in his haven.
But if thou’rt too drunk or craven, there’s one more for me to see:
Deep in time, my work awaits; Breathèd will be the lad for me—
The artist to do me!”
_______________
* [At the Broadway Journal, the only periodical Poe ever owned.]
