Poe Poem by Justin Reamer

That man with crazy eyes,
Obsession upon his mind,
Death upon his sweating brow,
Like an insect upon a man’s body,
Making a horrible itch,
The author knows every little bit about it.
The man who writes in the dark, dark lair,
The man who knows skeletons like the back of his hand,
Obsessed with death is what he is,
For he is Edgar Allan Poe.

He is friends with the raven,
The bird that knows all,
Which gives him wisdom to whatever
He may be pursuing,
Undergoing any sort of whim he may have.

His mind is a pit,
Full of funereal ideas,
Real and obscene,
Preposterous and crude,
For no one knows what goes on inside
The head of Mr Poe
As he digs corpses out of their graves
And spends time experimenting with death,
For those are what his stories are about.