A Poem of Romantic Intent

Bolded lines are directly from The Raven.

Horizontal lines were the only way I could make the stanzas separate.

I sat alit by a fervid fire I lit each fortnight before I'd retire

Where I'd want and wish and waken lest I wither

Where I drifted, nearly dreaming, suddenly I had a vision most beseeming

Of some gent whose eyes so gleaming, gleaming as I bade him hither

"'Tis my assistant," I muttered, "pleading now to approach me hither,

'Tis my assistant, my dearest Waylon Smithers."

Ah, it pleases me to remember the May to my December

And now the fire casts its ember and my shadow lengthens, slithers

Eagerly I wished to see the boy who'd court me with his smile so coy

And jolt my heart with giddy joy – joy for my dearest Smithers

For my caring, constant assistant whose appellation is Smithers

Who shall stay forever here while my wanton flesh withers.

And the sultry, so seductive rumbling of his vocal cords

Stilled me – thrilled me with fantastic tremors that hurled me into a dither

So that now, to kill the coldness of my heart, I stood repeating,

"'Tis dear Smithers entreating entrance treading thither -

My dearest Smithers entreating entrance while treading thither; -

'Tis my assistant, my dearest Smithers."

Perhaps he stood so time he'd squander; my suits still needing launder

"Dear," said I, "oh Smithers? Surely you won't wait and watch while I wither?
While I sat here dreaming, you were standing there and staring

With your eyes so gleaming, so gleaming as I bid thee hither

That I scarce was sure you saw me" - here I waved him hither as

Daydreamed he, my dearest Smithers.

Deep into his dreamy leering, long I sat there sniping, sneering,

Dreaming distant dreams no millionaire ever dared to dream before;

But my salacious thoughts were broken as I dared not be outspoken

And the only word there spoken was my weakened wail, "Waylon?"

This I wailed, and an echo murmured back the word, "Waylon!" -

My call to him, my dear Smithers.

Back into my settee yearning, all the fire within me burning,

Soon again I saw him gleaming somewhat brighter than before.

"Surely," said I, "surely that is he at my windows lavish,

Let me see, then, see who is truly treading thither,

Let my heart cease thumping and see the man who's treading thither; -

'Tis my assistant, my dearest Smithers."

Then with my heart aflutter, with many a flirt and stutter,

In there came the courtly Waylon of forty winters,

The most obsequious gestures stayed he while in the vestibule delayed he;

But with utmost gallantry he came upon my settee hither,

Laid me on the pillows of my settee hither,

Laid and loved me, my dearest Smithers.

Then this fiery Lothario was beginning me to grinning

As the grace and firm caress of his fingers gave me shivers

"Though your sweater be soft and woolen, thou," I said, "hath surely not woven

False whispers of fidelity, my Waylon wandering while I snore -

Tell me how long thine love will last while on this settee I snore!

Quoth, my Waylon, "Forevermore."

Much I marveled to hear my assistant assert so plainly

Though his words were few – they stuck in me like a sliver

For I could not help foreseeing how it would be so freeing

To be blessed with my bootlick sitting on my settee hither

As we buss and he brushes his lips hither

While he whispers, "Forevermore."

But my Waylon, sitting on the cushion opposite me, spoke only

That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour and spoke

No other words but just a shudder, his heart seared in search of succor

Till I scarcely more than muttered, "Other friends have flown before -

On the morrow he will leave me, as my Hopes have flown before."

Then my Waylon said, "Nevermore."

Spooked by the staid manner of his speaking,

"Doubtless," said I, "what he says is motivated by his salary,

Which has rendered me his master for to my chair he is my castor,

Saving him from walls of cheap plaster since I made him my whore

Till his prayers evinced sincere desire to transcend his status as hopeless whore,

And so he cried, "Nevermore."

But my Waylon still beginning me to grinning,

To divide us I dragged a cushion to the settee hither

His arm around me slinking as I swiftly started thinking,

Thinking what my Waylon would have done had he seen me at forty winters,

How he would have approached the Monty of twenty summers,

And would he have professed, "Forevermore?"

This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing

To the man whose eyes burned enough to befit my name and lore

This and more I sat aligning with our fingers slowly entwining

As the cushion compressed further thither,

Its dividing creases sinking further thither,

He pressed me close and said, "Forevermore!"

Then, methought, the air grew tenser, shadowed by my ruthless censor,

Shaded and chagrined by the tides of fading social mores,

"Wretch," I cried, "thou hast made a rake of me!

Quit – quit and repent of the love you swore

Quaff, oh quaff let me forget this love of yours!"

Quoth, my Waylon, "Nevermore."

"Lech!" said I, "thing of evil! Lecher still, if man or devil!

Whether tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee hither,

To my soul which you have vaunted and pursued me yet undaunted

To this settee where I'm wanted – tell me – tell me, 'til I quiver

Is there – is there paradise for this devil – tell me – tell me, my dear Smithers!"

Quoth, my Waylon, "Forevermore."

"Lech!" said I, "thing of evil! Lecher still, if man or devil!

By that Hell that burns below us – by that Satan we still adorn

Tell this soul who's had many a maiden, yet seeks in you a sexual maven,

Let this burden be unladen by the Waylon whose love hath my heart restored

My caring, constant assistant Waylon whose love hath my heart restored

Quoth, my Waylon, "Forevermore."

"Be that word our sign of starting, my dear friend," I cooed, my love imparting -

"Get thee back into my arms and together we shall snore.

I shall henceforth be more outspoken and leave our bond unbroken.

I shall lend you a token of my affection as I bid you hither

To burrow and bury thine lips inside my heart and whirl me into a dither."

Quoth, my Waylon, "Forevermore."

And my Waylon, never quitting, still is sitting, still is sitting,

On the pillow atop my settee squished between us as I snore,

And his eyes have all the gleaming of our gentlemanly dreaming

And the fire alight casts shadows on the mirror

And my soul that burns from a shadow born of flame

Shall be lifted – forevermore!