Edgar Allen Poe,
He did some sombre poems sow,
Was it the Raven, or the crow?
Nevermore, he spoke of light,
Or anything remotely bright,
In death he did delight,
A ready friend at hallows wean,
Got downright dirty, real mean,
Scare the hell out of many a teen,
With dirt of graves, he scratched,
The papers deep, of hope detached,
When sombre thoughts he hatched,
I wonder, how he is my friend,
Sinister he was, right to the end,
Sombre bells, toll for this gent.