Once upon a midnight bleary, while I chain smoked, drunk and weary,
Pondering bottles and jugs of flammable drink galore,
While I reeled, nearly unconscious, suddenly there came a fuss,
As of some distant muss, muss somewhere beyond my chamber door.
“'Tis some idiot,” I muttered, “causing fuss at my chamber door -
Only this, and nothing more.”

Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak September,
And each hopeless crying freshman arrived upon that cursed floor.
Eagerly I wished the morrow – vainly I had tried to borrow
From my friends who run a bar now – a bar now stocked with drink galore -
For that rare and radiant stash the angels deem a liquor store -
A bar named Rum Galore.

And the cotton, drab, uncertain rustling of each vodka stained curtain
Thrilled me – filled me with fantastic urges felt many times before;
So that now, to still the screaming of my bladder, I stood whilst repeating,
“'Tis some idiot entreating entrance at my chamber door -
Some drunken idiot entreating entrance at my chamber door; -
This it is and nothing more.”

Presently my soul grew stronger; bladder protesting no longer,
“Jackass,” said I, “or whore, truly your forgiveness I implore;
But the fact is I was passed out, and so gently you had a bout,
And so faintly you came about, about to my chamber door,
That I scarce am sure I heard” - here I opened the door; -
Darkness there and nothing more.

Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, sneering,
Growling, dreaming dreams no demon ever dared to dream before;
But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token,
And the only thing there spoken was the mumbled phrase, “Rum Galore?”
This I mumbled, and an echo mumbled back the phrase “Rum Galore!”
Merely this and nothing more.

Back into the chamber turning, juices within me violently churning,
Soon again I heard a noise somewhat louder than before.
“Surely,” said I, “surely that is something at my window lattice;
Let me see, then, what thereat is, and my refrigerator explore -
Let my stomach be still a moment and my refrigerator explore; -
'Tis some rodent and nothing more!”

Open here I flung the shutter, when, with pompous blurt and bubble,
In there swam a snorkeled pigeon of the dirty streets and poor;
Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;
But, with mien of lord or lady, perched upon my drink laden floor -
Perched near some vermouth and drank a quick nip of hooch on my floor -
Perched, and drank, and nothing more.

Then this speckled bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
By the jovial and silly decorum of the countenance it wore,
“Though thy actions be brash and brazen, thou,” I said, “art sure no craven,
Disgustingly dirty and numerous denizen of city, park, and shore -
Tell me what thy lordly name is while sharing booze upon my floor!”
Quoth the Pigeon, “It's Seymour.”

Much I marveled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,
Though its answer little slurred – much drink obviously bore;
For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
Ever yet was blessed with snorkeled pigeon drinking booze on his floor -
Bird or beast wearing snorkel and drinking booze on his floor,
With such name as “Seymour.”

But Seymour, sitting drunk upon the floor, spoke only
Moderately slurred, as if into his soul much drink he did pour.
Nothing but, “Come on” he uttered – while he drunkenly fluttered -
Till I muttered, “My friends will love this fanciful tale -
A drunken pigeon leading me to adventure and jail.
Then the bird said, “Speak less, follow more.”

Startled at thoughts broken by reply so aptly spoken,
“Doubtless,” said I, “what it drinks fills its liver and store
A trifling amount as its tolerance is bred from unholy decadence
Followed by best and followed by better drinkers that I adore -
Till my hope reaches the tolerance goal
Possessed by Seymour.”

Alcoholic Pigeon filing my stony drunken face to smiling,
We wheeled out the window away from my smokes and drink and floor;
Then, in the cloud I was drinking, I betook myself to linking
Taste unto taste, thinking where this marvelous bird of poor -
Where this magnificent, wondrous, and marvelous bird of poor -
Found clouds made of Pinot Noir.

This I flew engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
As I drank my fill of tasty clouds that Gods themselves surely bore;
This and more I sat divining, with my mouth at ease imbibing
In the cloud's silver lining while halogen light we flew o'er,
But whose silver drunken lining while halogen light we flew o'er,
I would have not visited without Seymour!

Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
Swung by seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor.
“Hell,” I cried, “the fates hath lent thee – by these angels he hath sent thee
Drink – drink from the heavens that house Seymour;
Quaff, oh, quaff this wond'rous drink shown to me by Seymour!”
Quoth the Pigeon, “There is more.”

“Prophet!” said I, “wond'rous bird! - Prophet still, whatever reason incurred! -
Whether God sent, or whether conjured by magic or more,
Alcohol all flaunted, in this aerial land enchanted -
On this drunken ass you've planted – tell me truly, I implore -
Are there – are there clouds of hard liquor? - tell me – tell me, I implore!”
Quoth the Pigeon, “They're just next door.”

“Prophet!” said I, “wond'rous bird! - Prophet still, whatever reason incurred!
By the cosmos that twist above us – by that place we both adore -
Tell this soul with alcohol laden if, with in the distant Aidenn,
It shall clasp a sainted location whom the angels name Rum Galore -
Clasp a rare and radiant location whom the angels name Rum Galore.”
Quoth the Pigeon, “Rum's there, and a lot more”

“Be that phrase our friendship starting, bird or friend!” I shrieked, upstarting -
“Get thee to the distant sky and let us head next door!
Leave no vomit as token of the drink thou hath choked in!
Leave the skies unbroken! - quit thy long sit on my floor!
Take my heart in thy drunken beak, and take thy form from off my floor!”
Quote the Pigeon, “Alright, sure.”

And the Pigeon, never flitting, just gently swimming, still is swimming
In the wond'rous skies above my windowed floor;
And he flies with only one man who is akin to liquor can,
While halogen light they fly o'er tints the clouds delicious amber;
And drinking alone from bottle and jug on that wretched floor
Shall be banished forever – because of Seymour!

"Zombie" said:
Has anyone even read the poem? Geez, I should work on getting it done as an image. People might read it then. >.<

"Shingo" said:
However, it's syllable-count per line.... or perhaps it's "iambic" seem to be off a bit, when compared to "The Raven." Nicely done, though.