Edgar Poe waxed full of woe
He sang a song of sadness
He filled his days with minstrel rays
His nights bore down to madness
Take this kiss upon thy brow
And in parting from me now
This much more let me avow:
You are wrong should you not deem
All my days to be a dream.
Yet if hope is flown away
In a night or in a day
In a vision or yet none
Is it thereby less the gone?
All we see or seem to see
Is a dream within a dream.
To the glory that was Greco
And the grandeur that was Roma
I lingered round them under that benign sky;
watched the moths fluttering among the heath and harebells,
listened to the soft wind breathing through the grass,
and wondered how anyone could ever imagine unquiet slumbers
for the sleepers in that quiet earth.
So the story goes.
Thack was right on track
To put Charles Dickens to the test
So what happened?
Can you explain this phenomenon?
It is not enough to seek
Who the hell was Mervyn Peake?
When thinking errant Edward Plunkett
Just stop and think
A bullet if you can
Like the man
The true inspiration for Aeon Flux
and extra special things redux
Conan, Kull, and Solomon are kings
Immune from all indentured slings
What the dickens?
The plot thickens
And she likes it that way