His door caved in a shower of splinters,
   to the sound of bleating whimpers
   Just one word, as if to my soul,
   my forgiveness he implored.
   Nothing further did he utter,
   for my sword did cause him stutter
   And I scarcely more than muttered,
   "Now your life runs on the floor.
   On the morrow she'll find lonely,
   just as I found heretofore."
        Said to myself, "That rotten whore."

   Wondering at the stillness broken,
   by her boyfriend loudly croakin',
   The crow burst in on me and
   spied her lover on the floor.
   Caught by some neurotic master,
   first she cried out, "Why you bastard?"
   Followed fast and followed faster so,
   no hope would I adjure.
   Stern despair returned, and not
   the balance that I dared adjure--
        That sad answer, "Nevermore."

   And her weeping, that beguiling
   all my sad soul into smiling,
   Remembrances of dark and grey times
   whirling too much to ignore.
   Then, despite this horrid stinking,
   I betook myself to linking
   Fancy unto fancy, of what could
   make cry this rotten whore;
   What this grim, dishonorable, two-faced,
   backstabbing little whore
        Meant in whispering sweet amore.