The Maven
Once, in winter, weary, I wanted to discuss a theory,
And so walked up to the classroom of my teacher, Lenore.
I started gently rapping, wondering if she wasn’t napping,
And then I heard the tapping of her feet across the floor;
The tap, tap, tap of high-heeled shoes across the floor
—And there stood my Lenore
“Oh, hello there,” she said yawning as I said to her “Good morning.
I have something I’d like to discuss with you, my dear Lenore.”
“Well sit down,” she said and went back to her desk; she looked so relaxed
As she collapsed into her large stuffed chair across the floor;
And the cushions gave out sighs like a fat man’s snore
—And there sat my Lenore.
“I think,” I said, so nervous that I found myself quite wordless,
“I think the writer you assigned us is a great big bore!”
“A bore!” she said, exclaiming, throwing up her hands, complaining
And then blaming me with a look of hatred and of war;
Yes, on her face I saw a veritable declaration of war
—On the face of my dear Lenore.
“He’s alright,” I said, fearing, trying to ignore her peering
And her sharp eyes which her anger did outpour.
“He’s just so dreary! All his stories make me weary,
And my theory is that he was morbid to the core.
Yes, I think Poe was a man morbid to the core!”
—I said this, and nothing more.
“You just don’t get it!” said she, irate.
“Just forget it! You’re as sensitive as that oaken door!"
"He was a genius!” she went on, “I mean, Jesus!
How could you ask for more?
How could a little, stupid high school student ask for more?”
—So said my Lenore.
“But," I said defensive, "in Poe, everything is sorrow and is woe
Why would I want to read a man who knows nothing more?
His stories are all the same, they all concern the insane
And the bane of life and love—I mean, what a chore!
Getting through a single story is a great big chore!”
—So said I to my Lenore.

And in a moment, in her anger, she sprang up, and I saw a dagger
Clutched in her hands, pulled from her table drawer.
And with a roar, she attacked, and I hastily went back
And with a whoosh and with a whack I quickly reached the door.
Yes—thank God!—I managed to reach the door!
—And escaped my dear Lenore.
But, one day, when in my study, I heard something rather funny,
Something funny coming suddenly from my chamber door.
I opened it and, with a start, I felt a dagger in my heart,
Which laid me down, inert, upon my chamber floor.
Over me stood the brooding figure of Lenore.
—Croaked the maven, "Nevermore."