Once upon a morning dewy, as I woke and had a chewy
Cereal bar from the kitchen cupboard— "Score!"
I thought, forgetting my last eve's trip to the grocery store.
Once under its silvery wrapping, suddenly there was a jingling,
As of some haberdashery commingling, tangling in my dresser drawer.
"It's a mouse", I muttered, "angling for an apple core—
Only this and nothing more."
Ah, distinctly I remember, it was in the warm September;
And each individual crumb cast its mess upon the floor.
Gingerly, I clicked the remote; rapidly, the TV promotes
Some news pundit's calls to emote— emote vainly, as I bore—
As the dreary ticker scrolls, I tune the set to channel four;
And I boot my Commodore.
And the glitching, mad flickering of each mauve character
Thrilled me—filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
there popped the "ERROR -4". To its case I stood there beating,
Beating on the old Commodore. "Percussive maintenance," I implore—
"It's some loose chip, an old solder joint gone poor—
A bad connection, and nothing more."
Satiated, as was my hunger; a BASIC prompt! It glitched no longer;
"Phew," said I, "nothing wrong with my sixty-four;
But my disk commands are hanging
Now I see the cable dangling, dangling behind my drawer,
And with some finagling, I'll have to make sure—
the drive is plugged into the port."
Load quote star, quote comma eight, comma one.
Searching for—
Device not present, error.
Load quote star, quote comma eight, comma one.
Device not present, error.
Slouched into my modest station, rapidly my incantation—
Turned to a stillness sore. With trepidation, I puzzled true
about the hesitation more; "Oh, drive two. Let's try you."
As it buzzed in syncopation, again I hear that clang I heard before.
Dare I interject, "Damnation!"— I slipped my hand with minor gore
Across the user-port of my dear Commodore.
At the door, a jingle-jangle, cantankerous, in every angle—
And quizz I do, myself, that my hand remains sore;
Sore from the gore, of the port of my sweet C64.
And there it stands, my body angling; "Do I dare inspect the jangling,
ringing at the estate porch?" Nay, I must patch my hand, before—
I'm bleeding on the carpet floor.
To the master bath I sprint, in order that my hand is rinsed;
Rinsed of its wounded ichor. 'Twas then that damned ringing—
The damned ringing! That hideous noise!
Clanging, dinging, as that of chandelier crystals from Tiffany,
Singing, lingering in a gracious cacophony—
interrupted my joys! I could stand no more.
Into the foyer I tremble, wavering in posture, humble as
A seasick stevedore. Bandaged, my fingers carefully reach,
For the locks, so many; deadbolts, sliders, tumblers and—
"The C64!" It managed to finally leach—
My rancid runny blood, to a circuit short. "Just a second!", I proclaim
Watching my machine abort.
The ghosts, as if by killer poke, turned my instrument to smoke.
Had I not steadfast responded, I could see the sparks inspire—
Conspire to set my room ablaze. And in that fire—
All my games, all my days; and my lovely Commodore.
Computers up and down the walls, magazines along the halls;
And diskettes of realms, forgotten more.
Finally, I've had enough. "He saw it fit to make this tough—
Surely it's Evangelists, with my address up on their call.
'He hasn't got the Lord Jesus, nor gospel of Peter and Paul',
as they file through landlords' leases, filed with the town hall."
That's gotta be it. With temperance, I resolved-
To finally open that damned door.
And that sound, without cessation, amplifies my divine frustration.
So I rebound, about the inundation of noise, in anticipation
Of a couple, suit-and-gown, representative of old-world nations,
With nothing more to offer me than The Hope— divine salvation.
As I'm lurching through the foyer hall, clacking out the cams on all
The locks turning on every chamber bore.
"Be right there!" With cautious touch, I place my hand upon the lever,
Slowly, I release the catch, the last of this door's bindings severed;
Breathing deeply, with a hitch, the pain of my forefinger's slivered
Gash a pressing force, an itch; so slain am I, to have delivered
The soul of a lich, forever more.
The once-thought-dead machine— again, to death it hapless lunges.
The creaking of the rusty hinges, upon the damn clanging impinges.
I peer around the portal, ajar, searching left, right, and afar;
"Huh?" I arrest my speech; for, dark as tar,
A corvid sat upon the porch, out from underneath my car.
My eyes roll up, "Har-dee-har-har."
Slamming the door, in an effort vain;
To frighten the bird from my precipice; again
The rattling, maddening mezzoforte din,
Coming from the doorstep, only this time
A crescendo develops, as if a matter of urgency
"Please have mercy," I plead once more.
Visions, now of birds aloft, with hard steel keys instead of feathers soft;
Torment my point of view. Alas—
I had to deal with this damned spot, lest I consider a job with Microsoft;
Toward the hardwood door, I coughed: "I've had enough of you. Get lost!"
Deterred not, the Raven stewed in the downpour.
A rainshower with thunder clapping, as he stood there, steadily sapping
The last of my hard-won sanity.
For even through the torrent pouring, the Raven remained, even during
The hail of a storm in the vicinity.
Jangling the song of its avian people, continuing to taunt me throwing
Me off my train of thought, forever more.
Now, into the afternoon, through a flash flood, maybe a typhoon,
The smoke alarum having begun screeching in the living room,
It became clear to me this would continue, until the moon.
This ceaseless, deafening riff of Hell's bells must end soon.
Once again, I threw open the front door.
"Why, why in the nine hells do you seek to torment me more?
Can't you see that you've left me tired and sore?
You made me blow up my vintage Commodore!
Do you know how much it costs to replace a C64?
My blood stains in the carpet floor
will seek to be a persistent eyesore.
What ceaseless siren song embitters me more,
than the pop and fizzle of a machine I restored.
You have finally struck me a chord,
and forced me to draw out my sword.
Do you have for me a parting word?"
To the door, I angrily roared.
This bird, with my antics now thoroughly bored,
rummaged through its wing and drew forward
a familiar shape in its beak. It hopped toward;
Sure enough, it's for a Ford.
"You left your keys down Aisle 4."
Quoth the Raven; and nothing more.
