At midnight Poe’s reciting parts of poetry he’s writing,
Whilst a raven is alighting on the bust above his door.
But the poem Poe composes poses problems, ’cause he knows his
Line on roses being roses has been written once before.
He supposes he could change it—he had lots of rhymes before.
Tons of choices. Rhymes galore.
In his bleary brain he goes through all the words that rhyme with rose,
and throws out clothes, expose, Joe’s, nose, and toes, and maybe twenty more.
Alas, in spite of all of those he sees not one of them that flows
as well as “rose is rose is rose,” the line he used to have before.
“Maybe I should switch to prose,” he sighs, and lies down on the floor.
Quoth the raven,
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[Text and illustrations from Frankenstein Takes the Cake, copyright © 2008 by Adam Rex, posted by permission of Houghton Mifflin Harcourt. All rights reserved.]
