Just for fun, I thought I'd print the words to my "scary masterpiece," The Raken! It's a fun parody of Edgar Allan's Poe's The Raven! Enjoy! (PS - Catch the video as well!)
The Raken
Once upon an autumn dreary, while I pondered raking, weary,
Over this my summer’s browning and forgotten grassy shore.
While I labored, fairly hustling, suddenly there came a rustling,
As if something lightly bustling, bustling through my tedious chore.
“Tis a squirrel,” I muttered, “looking for some nuts to store –
Only this, and nothing more.”
How distinctly I remember, should have done this in September,
Not a dear longstanding member of the neighborhood’s décor.
Eagerly I wished to borrow, lawn machine brought on the morrow,
But had only rake and sorrow, sorrow for this horrid chore –
For the everlasting and back-breaking tedious garden chore –
Thrust upon me evermore.
And each leaf, so gently falling, job completion now forestalling,
Chilled me, filled me with such apprehension never felt before;
So I raked, my heart its beating, tempting my faint soul’s retreating
And with wife and child’s entreating, rake until my sinews sore
Bearing now their sad entreating, bones, and sinews aching sore -
Tis a job and nothing more.
But my pleas on deaf ears falling, kept this pace though it was crawling,
Yard my earnest prayer was that there be an ending to this chore;
Vainly was my nervous talking, for to me I felt a stalking,
And so faintly I kept walking toward the gloves I wore –
Gloving now my hands and taking rake resumed my awful chore,
Raking piles of leaves once more.
As I contemplated napping, heard the sound of thunder clapping,
Wishing for the clouds to now descend and drenching rain to pour
But the thunder soon it ended, so my respite now suspended
Bade me come to spot untended, and to take up rake once more –
Vainly now I whispered, “Horror!” and I heard the sound once more –
Scraping, chanting, “Nevermore!”
‘Round the yard my head was turning, all my soul within me burning,
Still I heard the scraping voice say what it called out twice before.
“Surely,” said I, “surely that is, some young squirrel upon the lattice,
Or a bold stray dog or cat is, clawing at my cellar door –
Let my raking still itself now and this mystery explore –
But the sound was heard no more!
Then turned I to do some bagging, yet above my family’s nagging,
Was the cold hard sound of something, calling as it had before.
Wished that I had leaves been blowing, for the blower’s rage bestowing
Would have drown the sound now growing, growing as I raked some more –
Still its hideous form not showing, haunting now this wretched chore,
Calling, calling, “Nevermore!”
Gazed down toward my two feet trembling, clarity, my thoughts assembling,
Knowledge of the true cause mocking heart and mind and soul and core.
Long and jagged teeth descending, to the grass as I was bending,
So reproachful, my heart rending, as the stiffened rake began to roar
Scraping on the crimson foliage, causing stiffened form to roar,
Quoth the rakin’, “Nevermore!”
Marveled I as wood and plastic, making sounds so brash and spastic,
Spoke its harsh reproof so coldly, into flesh and marrow bore;
Contemplated I the science, of this object’s gross defiance,
Yet on this was my reliance, still my darkest heart it tore,
This which lacked a soul or feeling, still it mocked me all the more
Scratching out its “Nevermore!”
But the rake it seemed so fitting, here to do my very bidding,
That one tool, so fashioned thusly, did perform yet offer more.
“So absurd!” I came to mutter, “that this rake should choose to utter,
Cleaning yard and walk and gutter, could this implement implore?
And with such a tool before me, would I win this raking war?”
Then it answered, “Nevermore!”
Startled at the stillness broken, from a rake, a word thus spoken,
“Doubtless,” said I, “This is madness, my mind’s wanderings, nothing more.”
I this moment should be tarping, heeding not this objects harping
Else this siege of my mind’s warping, should delay this daunting chore,
‘Til the hope of job’s completion, should recoil in me no more.
Yet it called out, “Nevermore!”
But with all my futile raking, goal unmet and thirst un-slaking,
Straight I wheeled around this forest, gazing down at leafy floor.
There upon I set to thinking, and in horror set to linking,
Fancy upon fancy, thinking that this drama must mean more –
Stuff of tales, so gruesome, ghastly, drawn from fearful days of yore,
Meant by rakin’s, “Nevermore!”
Thus I paused, my mind engaging, in a story newly paging
Here within my mind a tempest – leaves be gone and fall no more!
Fighting now a futile battle, herding leaves like many cattle
Hearing still that dreadful rattle, haunting me within my core.
Seething terror, my transgression, being frozen at death’s door
Shall it cease now? – “Nevermore!”
Then methought, the leaves fell thicker, causing me to rake much quicker,
Wondering if unseen hand hath shaken bough and branch once more,
“Rake!” I cried, “the ground is covered, with the leaves that one time hovered,
Respite, I am not recovered, thou dost vex me, wretched chore!”
Calling thus in desperation, to the sky I did implore,
Quoth the rakin, “Nevermore!”
“Prophet!” said I, “Demon garden. Rake, yes still, but without pardon.
Whether tool or instrument of hell I cannot now ignore
Your unceasing leafy taunting, filling this my yard with haunting
For the gruesome task so daunting – tell me truly, I implore?
Is there end to falling foliage – thus that I may cease this chore?”
Quoth the rakin, “Nevermore!”
Horror upon horror dancing, on my grass these leaves advancing,
By that Heaven there above us – by that God we both adore –
Tell this man with leaf piles laden, up to knees so he must wade in,
If I may with my rake made in, distant land triumph once more –
O’er this sea of leaves and pots of flowers dead by front porch door!
Quoth the rakin, “Nevermore!”
By that word, I thus departing, threw the rake and stopped my carting,
Shrieking now to lawn and branches, “Thou wilt have my heart no more!”
Let these piles stand as a token, of the soul that now has broken –
This my final word has spoken! Quit have I, to rake no more!
Take thy tines from out my heart, as now I leave you at the door!”
No more hear I, “Nevermore!”
But the rakin, never stirring, leaves by wind are still there whirring,
In the yard now buried under rustling rotting leafy floor.
There to mock my vain evicting, with now winter storm’s predicting
Flakes begin to fall convicting, endless shoveling in store…
Wilt there be an end to this my chilly wintry shoveling chore?
Quoth the shovel, “Nevermore!”