Sitting on the river bank, by the Yew Tree Avenue,
Sits a suitor, lean and lank, from the Inland Revenue.
Brooding taxman, on your bench, why is it that you languish?
Speak her name out loud and clear, fear and darkness vanquish.
But he broods in chiaroscuro, paints grey and vermillion,
Grand ole oprey, country charm, thinks it’s worth a million.
Flat-toned hues of ochre-green, palette-knife decisions,
Mark his actions, hard and clear, no room for revisions.
A raven sits upon his back, cut-paper black and brooding,
Squawks the name he dare not speak, She’s called Lenore from Tooting!
He stands and damns old Allen Poe, curses the black raven,
Then leaves to catch the 38 to Stoke Newington and New Haven.
Copyright © Max Scratchmann. All Rights Reserved