(stilted) Laurels From A Poe Toaster Poem by Mason Maestro

Stilts on ice in Boston city
Isn’t it a pity
The story it goes
Tells of a distorted ghost
And this we know
His laurel’s on the snow
Yearly keeping we see him
Walks in the same way
To the same shady place
He says
Hey Poe, hey Poe, hey Poe, let’s have a toast

Tamerlane, the Raven, Eulalie
A prospectus
Tamerlane, the Raven, Eulalie
The Styluses

Propora, you aren’t alone
At the headstone time retain
A black-clad figure
With silver-tipped cane
Half bottle of Martel
Identity they’ll never tell
Come New England fall
Enter Westminster Hall
And the burial floor
(Their Gothic Revival for Baltimore)
He walks into another shady place
He says
Hey Poe, hey Poe, hey Poe, let’s have a toast