Jet black with a golden iris
Sits on my door frame
And knocks again and again
It is almost midnight
The witching hour is at hand
And I drink coffee and try to compose
As a wise man once said
"Quoth the raven, Nevermore!"
My quill, once fluid and sure
Shakes in my hand
When I hear the knocking on the window
I try to write about a girl I knew once
Who did not survive the winter winds
In her house by the sea
Forever lost she is now
But a distant memory
Like a boat sailing God knows where
Meanwhile the raven is still there
Knocking on my window
And perhaps this spectre
Will haunt every moment
In my life
Until one day, I am mad
Quite mad
Unable to do anything
But slobber into a pillow
I ask myself
Is that what I want?
Is that how my life ends?
In servitude to a bird
That just knocks, never speaks?
O Raven, whereforth hast thou come from?
Why do you torment me so?
I am neither Jekyll nor Hyde
I am just a man composing
Why did you choose my window?
Why not someone less mediocre?
You speak in a code I do not comprehend
Your voice does not reach me
Speak, Raven, speak
Or in silence let me lie
Whisper not in my ear
"Nevermore!"
"Nevermore!"
The Bilge Master
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