Till Death Us Do Part - Edgar Allan Poet

I cannot stand my ghastly wife:
instead, I love her sister, dear.
The former one pollutes my life.
The latter woman I revere.
I’ve hatched a plot to rid me of
my wife, I’ve simply had enough.

I’ve put rat-poison in a cake:
my wife is fond of sweets and treats.
One slice is all she’ll have to take:
rich cream will guarantee she eats
then she’ll be gone and I’ll have Maud.
It’s simple: just give fate a prod.

Maud’s phoned me to my work and said
she’s at our house to tend my wife
who’s got the sniffles, gone to bed:
there’s germs around and flu is rife.
I fear I’ve made a great mistake:
Maud’s brewed some tea and scoffed the cake.

Edgar Allan Poet

Burning Questions - Edgar Allan Poet

I am a maid, Your Worships, please:
not wicked, me, I meant no harm.
I beg you now, upon my knees
to please desist, it hurts my arm.
You are strong men while I am weak.
Undo the rope and let me speak.

Last Friday night, I heard a cry:
it was my friend: her name you know.
She is the witch, not I, not I.
We went, by moonlight, to and fro.
She bade me cast aside my frock
to frolic on the Catioroc

and though we danced without our clothes,
I did not meet the Devil there.
From that bleak hill no fiend arose
to ravish me or kiss my hair.
Please, not the fire! Here are the names!
Sweet neighbours, do not fan those flames.

Edgar Allan Poet

If It Moves - Edgar Allan Poet

Something’s moving in the dark.
I’m sure I saw a shadow there.
Why does the dog refuse to bark
and cower there behind the chair?
There’s someone outside near the tree:
a trespasser, it seems to me.

His outline is misshapen, grim,
inhuman almost, to my mind.
Won’t you go out and challenge him?
No, stay, I won’t be left behind.
Lord help us now, I hear you groan:
no signal on the telephone.

The door is strong, the windows too
and yet I cannot help but scream
when his warped face comes into view:
a creature from an ugly dream
He glares in at us through the glass
We find ourselves at an impasse.

The door is smashed. He’s broken in.
He’s fury-faced and murder-eyed
We cannot flee to save our skin
for we are frail and terrified.
He snarls. I see his fangs and snout.
I feel his breath. The lights go out ...

Edgar Allan Poet

Lycanthrophilia - Edgar Allan Poet

In straitjacket and padded cell,
I struggle when the full moon calls.
The doctors say I am unwell.
I hurl myself against the walls
till, gradually, my lupine howl
dies down into a weary growl.

At other times, I am a man
and therefore I must integrate
with other men as best I can:
a human beast, approximate.
But, in my heart, the wolf-pack cry
commands me so I must comply.

There are no mirrors in this place
but I discern, in my mind’s eye,
the snarl upon my stricken face
whenever nurses happen by.
To murder would not be a sin:
I am a wolf in human skin.

Edgar Allan Poet

Cat Burglar - Edgar Allan Poet

I curl up upon the armchair.
I purr and stare defiantly.
I will not move, let no one dare
to interfere, to dislodge me
or, when they slumber, softly deep,
I’ll suffocate them in their sleep.

They think I am a sulky cat.
They could not be the more misled,
for I am worse, by far, than that:
I am the Spirit of the Dead,
a demon dressed in feline skin.
When darkness falls, let sport begin.

I’ll sidle carefully upstairs
then enter bedrooms, one by one,
(their overheated, smelly lairs)
spring on each bed and have some fun.
I’ll dip into their psychic streams
and steal, from each, their precious dreams.

Edgar Allan Poet

Gardener’s Question Time - Edgar Allan Poet

The garden is magnificent:
the fruit trees pruned, all hedges trimmed.
Hours, countless hours, you must have spent
in keeping every lawn-edge strimmed.
Where do you get the energy?
It is a mystery to me.

Oh, I don’t manage on my own:
I keep some zombies in the shed.
They work all day and never moan
for, after all, they are Undead.
I feed them cats to keep them mild
and now and then a neighbour’s child.

That rose bush, too, is wonderful.
Do you use chemicals or what?
The answer is immensely dull:
nutrition from organic rot.
Think of the rose bush as a wreath.
The postman’s buried underneath.

Edgar Allan Poet

Jules and Jim - Edgar Allan Poet

Jules forgot to feed the tiger,
which was very careless of him.
He worked at the Circus Zeiger
with his trustworthy colleague, Jim.
There, Jules would feed it Tiger-Mix
while Jim would teach it to do tricks.

Just a inattentive blunder
but, oh, its consequence was grim.
Jim, poor Jim, was torn asunder,
then Raj the tiger swallowed him.
It’s obvious, it must be said,
that hungry tigers should be fed.

Edgar Allan Poet

Good To Meat You - Edgar Allan Poet

We stop indoors my wife and I:
keep to ourselves, rarely go out.
We have no friends. We are quite shy.
Newspapers, we can do without.
But, once or twice a year, someone
arrives, by chance, and we have fun.

A man, whose car has broken down,
requiring help or telephone;
A salesman with a worried frown
who, foolishly, is on his own
and sometimes even better news:
Jehovah’s Witnesses in twos.

We fetch them in for cakes and tea
then drug them, carry them below
into our cellar, laughingly,
begin to torture them real slow.
then later on, to soothe their aches,
we chop them up for juicy steaks.

Folk always say that life’s a bitch
and then you die: we fix that bit.
We like our diet protein-rich
and human flesh, I will admit,
sliced carefully from a fresh kill,
is truly irresistible.

Edgar Allan Poet

Lucky - Edgar Allan Poet

They don’t come luckier than me:
I’ve not nine lives, I’ve ninety-nine.
In street-fights (I’ve had two or three)
or knife-fights, victory’s been mine.
I keep a trusty rabbit’s foot
in the breast-pocket of my suit.

When I see magpies, I see four.
Black cats, for luck, curl round my heels.
I find one coin then I find more.
Thrice blessed with luck is how it feels.
I ride in carriages by day,
go to my club and rarely pay.

But England’s far too tame for me
so to America I’ll sail.
In luxury, I’ll put to sea
on a new liner, massive scale,
de-luxe, designed to get there quick.
They’ve named the vessel, Titanic.

Edgar Allan Poet