Perils of Poe and Poetry

Something weird is in the air. It’s in my nose and ears and hair. Last night, I read a lot of Poe, and now, I can’t talk right no mo’.

The things I say come out in rhyme; not just once, but all the time. The sun is shining, bright as can be; the whole world’s fine, except for me. The coffee’s hot and black and strong, it hasn’t helped; I still talk wrong.

I needed food, got in the car; the grocery store would not be far. But even there, this weird affliction was still with me, to ruin my diction.

The chatty clerk asked, “How’s your day?” I answered, “Fine, except for what I say.” She smiled and shrugged; I said no more but quickly headed for the door.

A virus or a rare disease? An illness brought on by a sneeze? I have no clue from whence it came nor even if it has a name. I just hope it goes away so I can talk the normal way.

Poe’s works are genius; they’re superb, each spooky noun, each eerie verb, but maybe with tomorrow’s sun, this rhyming thing will all be done.

There’s just one thing of which I’m certain–if a breeze disturbs my front room curtain and a raven raps upon my door, I’ll not read Poe, no, nevermore!

Not to compare my cozies with the great Edgar Allan, but if you like a mystery, delicious chills, a bit of history, just click on this and you will see the books that were written by little ol’ me.