Once
upon an art class dreary, while I pondered weak and weary
Over many a quaint and curious objects set on the still life that lay before
While I waited, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping
As of someone violently rapping, rapping on the cement floor
“ ‘Tis some classmate,” I muttered, “walking across the cement floor
Only this and nothing more.”
Ah
distinctly I remember, it was in the bleak November
And our illuminated still life wrought its ghost upon the floor
Eagerly I wished the morrow—vainly I had sought to borrow
From my arts surcease of sorrow—sorrow for the days before
For the horrid and putrid days set before
Nameless here
forever more.
And
the sliding of the chair to my right, as the curtain twitched in my sight
Vexed me—filled me with fantastic annoyance hardly ever felt before
So that now, to still the boiling of my blood, I sat repeating
“ ‘Tis some classmate finding a view on another spot on the floor
Some late classmate finding a view on another spot on the floor
This it is and
nothing more.”
Presently
my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer
“What,” said I, “do you think you are doing, you hath not sat there
before.
That fact is I’m impatient with this boorish type of antic
And your claims of being an artist lay on my ears like on a closed door
That I fear I am crowded”—here I looked at the spot on the floor
Darkness
there…and something more.
Deep
into that darkness staring, long I sat there looking, glaring
Waiting for him to answer my logical question of before
But the silence was unbroken, and the darkness gave no token
And no single word was spoken, not even the whispered word, “Lenore!”
“Moron,” whispered I hoping it had gone unnoticed by all that lay before
Merely
this and nothing more.
Back
to the still life turning, all my soul within me burning
Soon I heard a sound escape the moron, somewhat louder than before
“That’s very pretty,” the moron spoke to me of my drawing across my lap
“Are you an artist?” he continued, ignoring my protest of before
“Yes,” answered I, my brain for ideas and schemes I did explore
“Bother
me no more.”
But
the moron didn’t move nor concede in his quest to vex me
And his words poured unrelenting from his evil lips that bore
“Away,” I thought to cry, “I don’t want you near me ever!”
Instead I looked to the teacher sitting on my other side upon the floor
She uttered a small amused apology and nothing more
The moron would not exit the door.
“Take
your leave!” I could have shouted
at the moron
But still he sat, like a raven perched above a chamber door
“The art,” spoke the moron, “should flow like music in your mind”
I wanted to smack him and yell at him even more so than before
My eyes sought to burn and drop him through a hole in the floor
So he would vex me no more.