All outside is white as snow,
except for Edgar Allen's crow.
Quietly and so serene,
till Edgar Allen's crow does scream.
Waking me from peaceful dreams,
to hatred in the night.
Now I know all Edgar Allen's,
madness in his write.
Stalkingly he walks the window,
pecking on the vane.
Now I know why Edgar Allen,
wrote of things insane.
Tis not a raven in my head,
that drives me to these words.
But this blackened beast which will not cease,
hes such a noisy bird.
I scream and shoo but he don't move,
seems fear he does not know.
Hes not a the raven that I think,
hes Edgar Allen's Crow.
Well, crows are a menace too many a times.. Thanks for sharing Ken.. Witty and nice...
you've got to love the insanity that leads you to identifying with Poe...you have one of the best imaginations I've come across...great work.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Really fascinating, I'll have to read something by E.A. Poe now :)