My apologies to any fans of Edgar Allen Poe's The Raven.
I'm suffering from a raging sore throat today and am not thinking clearly either--- so take pity.
If you desire *good* classic poetry and composition--- tough. Go visit the library.
Comments, flames, home recipes for mortal ailments, can be sent to [email protected].

The Carouche (aka-- Yeah, I know it doesn't all rhyme. Do I care?)

Once upon a twilight dreary, while I procrastinated, full of worry
over many a quaint and curious sticky note of Nat's concoction experiments.
While I nodded, nearly flashbacking, suddenly there came a crashing,
as of somone generally smashing, smashing thru my skylight reinforcements.
"Tis LaCroix," I, disgusted, muttered, "crashing thru my skylight reinforcements.

Can't he for once use the door?"

Ah, distinctly I remember, it was in the bleak September, (...March?)
and each separate, cowsblood stain showed quite plainly on my decor.
Eagerly I wished the morrow, vainly I had sought to borrow, from these
notes some ease of sorrow. Sorrow for my beloved coroner.
For the rare and formaldehyde-laden maiden whom the Lambert's named Lenore--- I mean Nat! Nat!

Geez--- if she reads this she's gonna be sore!

And the stainless-steel reinforced groaning of each high-security blind panel
thrilled me--filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
So that now, to still the single beat of my heart , I stood repeating,
"I had better call the repair man before those suckers give out more;
better call the Maytag repairman soon before I add my *own* scorch mark to the door!

Now where did I leave the receipt for that store?"

Presently, the screeching grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
"LaCroix!" said I, "If that is you messing with my window decor!
I know, I know you were just waiting until I was napping before some mischief you explore!
But now I've caught you red-handed so--!" Here I opened wide the
stainless-steel, fortunately still under warranty, reinforced decor.

"Bad mistake," I muttered; floored.

Deep into the darkness, peering; long I lay there, muttering, (smoldering)
in such a fluent language mortals haven't heard for a good long time.
But the the darkness was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token,
And the only word there spoken was the whispered word,
"LaCroix?"
This I whispered, and an echo whispered back the word,
"LaCroix?--
Oiy thar, Nicks. Jus' spyn' fer juicy-types ratsy cusin ere's aboot likes
ee's majesty asked me too. So... whar's this ere 'puter mousey I ear ya 'ave?"

(*Sigh*) Employ carouche exterminators... Nevermore.

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Kyer, Loyal Squire(ette) to the Knight deBrabant; Knight de Soir
** absolutely nothing being advertised on this line **