| The Chicken Edgar Allen Poe Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered weak and weary, Over many an odd and curious web page of Weird Al fan lore, While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping, As of someone gently rapping, rapping on my bedroom door. "It's just some visitor," I muttered, "tapping on my bedroom door- Only this, and nothing more." Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak November And each seperate fan club member watched me writhe upon the floor. Eagerly I wished the morrow-only then did I feel sorrow- For my fans I wished no sorrow, sorrow for the ending tour- For the wild and wonderful bus tour whom the angels named Scissor- Ended here forevermore. And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each Hawaiian shirt Thrilled me-filled me with fantastic mem'ries of the Scissor tour, So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating "Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my bedroom door- Some late visitor entreating entrance at my bedroom door;- This it is, and nothing more." Presently my will grew stronger, hesitating then no longer, "Sir," said I, "or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore; But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping, And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my bedroom door, That I want' sure I heard you-" here I opened wide the door;- Darkness there, and nothing more. Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there, wondering, fearing, Doubting, dreaming dreams that I had never dared to dream before, But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token, And the only word there spoken was the whispered words "The tour!" This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the words "The tour!" Merely this, and nothing more. back into my bedroom turning, all my soul within me burning, Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before. "Surely," said I, "Surely something by my pane glass window passes, Let me see then, without glasses, and this mystery explore- Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore;- 'Tis the wind and nothing more." Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a bounce and flutter, Int here stepped a fearless Chicken of the Stupid days of yore; Not the least crow-clucking sound made he, not a second stopped or stayed he; But with manners of a lady, perched above my bedroom door- Perched upon my accordion just above my bedroom door- Perched, and sat, and nothing more. Then this farm livestock bird beguiling my odd fancy into smiling, By the strange and mad decorum of the Prince outfit it wore, "Though thy legs aren't made for kickin', thou," I said, art finger-lickin', Silly, crazy, dressed up chicken wandering from the nightly shore- Tell me whyfore Chicken came thus on the night's Accordian shore!" Quoth the chicken, "Go on tour!" Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to speak so plainly, Since its answer full of meaning-lots of relevancy bore; For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being Ever yet was blest with seeing bird above his bedroom door- Bird or beast upon the 'ccordion above his bedroom door, With advice like "Go on tour." But the chicken, sitting quiet on the 'ccordion, spoke only Those three words, as if it's soul in those three words he did outpour. Nothing further then he uttered-not a sequin he then fluttered- 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 the bird said "Go on tour." Startled at the stillness broken by advice so aptly spoken, "Doubtless," said I, "What it utters is its only stock and store, Caught from some unhappy farmer whom I think has tried to harm her Waddled fast and healed his karma till his squawks one phraselet bore- Till the outfits of the Prince that melancholy chicken wore Said "Go on-go on tour." But the Chicken still beguiling my odd fancy into smiling, Straight I wheeled my office chair in front of bird perched on my door, Then upon upholstery sinking, I betook myself to linking Web page onto web page, thinking what this ludicrous bird of yore- Why this mad, ungainly, silly, fat and ludicrous bird of yore Wanted me to "Go on tour." Thus I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing To the fowl whose frivolous eyes now stared into my web page store; This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining On the chair's upholstered lining that the lamplight gloated o'er, But whose velvet violet lining with the lamplight gloating o'er, I shall never bring on tour! Then methought the air grew hotter, and I found a cup of water Left by propmasters whose foot falls silent on the wooden floor. "Wretch!" I cried, "The band hath lent thee-by this concert he hath sent thee Respite-respite and replays of thy memories of the tour! Play, oh play the WAY Live! tape and do not put me back on tour!" Quoth the chicken, "Go on tour." "Prophet!" said I, "on the level-prphet still, if bird or devil!- Whether Ruben sent, or whether Al fans tossed thee here ashore, Desolate yet all undaunted, on my property enchanted- On this home by weirdness haunted-tell me truly, I implore- Is there-a venue in Gilead?-tell me-tell me, I implore!" Quoth the chicken, "Go on tour." "Prophet!" said I, "on the level-prophet still, if bird or devil! By that contract that bends not for us-by the fans we both adore Tell this soul who has toured recent if, by chance you will be decent, If I give you twenty-three cents will you wait for my next tour? Here's, um, twenty seven free cents, now please wait for my next tour!" Quoth the chicken, "Go on tour." "Be those words our sign in parting, bird or fiend," I yelled, upstarting- "Get thee back into the fryer and the night's Accordian shore! leave no sequin as a token of advice thy beak has spoken! Leave my solitude unbroken!-leave that spot above my door! Take those frills from out my room and take thy form from off my door!" Quoth the chicken-"Go on tour." And the Chicken, up is getting, now is sitting, now is sitting On the padded ledge that is perched just above my tour bus door; And his eyes have all the seeming of an Al fan's that is dreaming, And the headlights o'er him streaming throw his shadow on the floor; And my choice about my touring that was mine forevermore, Is now Chicken's: "Go on tour!" ---THE END--- Quoth the Chicken, "Go back to the Index!" |