Once upon a midnight nearing, while I bloggered weak and swearing,
Over some difficult and nagging reviews so endearing.
While I plodded long, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
Which soon turned to violent rapping, rapping on my attic office window.
Tis only Mary Poppins," I muttered, rapping on my attic office window,
Soon I opened to receive my eager token, my fourth Dunkacinno and muffin.
Given to me unspoken, save for "tuppence a cup" and slight nod of the hat,
Soon off to the clouds she was in scant seconds flat.
Yes, distinctly I recall, it wasn't bleak December at all,
And each separate dying moment bled its seconds on the floor.
Leaving me to ponder, what damned thing waits yonder,
As I eagerly sought inspiration for more blogging,
Before the morrow brought more sorrow, and DVDs and books piled more deeply at my attic office door,
Beneath the pouting pallid bust of Hitchcock, perched above my file drawer.
Foreboding, tilting piles towering higher and higher, evermore.
Ah, that constant pressure to blog and better, thrilled me, chilled me,
Filled me with fantastic terrors never writ before.
So that now to still the sipping of my fourth Dunkacinno cup almost tipping,
I sat and said, repeating, "Should I buy it on Amazon, and order more?"
And add to those tilting towering piles, evermore?
Presently my blogging grew stronger, realizing now that no longer,
I sit alone on this night's UPS delivery shore.
For certainly, most faintly, sultry whispers spoke most plainly, just beyond my attic office door,
Telling me most distinctly, in words worth repeating so succinctly,
"Yes, buy it on Amazon, my precioussss, and order more!"
Suddenly there came a knocking, a peculiar sound most shocking, upon my attic office door.
Slowly it opened, and from the darkness leering, a skull and bony hand soon nearing,
Handing me The Thirteenth Hour and whispering in raspy, bony sibilance to abhor,
"Buy Midnight Syndicate on Amazon, it's a creepy, spooky score!"
Not merely this, but there is still so much more.
Back into the darkness leaving, soon I heard a creaking, stirring,
Coming from the trapdoor nestled secretly in the floor.
Up poked a scary face, one that would leave no hint nor trace of sympathy for sure,
In words softly spoken, through cracked teeth all sorely broken,
She handed me Midnight Syndicate's Gates of Delirium, and hissed "Tis no Ilium, but
It's an eerie, certainly not cheery, creepy, spooky score!
Buy it on Amazon, but not merely this, there's still so much more!"
Then there came a melody, at once compelling and mysterious, coming from the open closet door.
Followed by a stirring, as something most repelling, stretched forth its long scaly limb in colors most obscure.
Waving in my face a copy of Out of the Darkness, it implored,
With background sounds of misty nights, and tombs yet to be explored,
"Buy Midnight Syndicate on Amazon, it's a creepy, spooky score!"
What's more there's this, and so much more.
Startled at the stillness broken by words so eloquently spoken, I took the disc
And played their children's music of the night.
Then upon my fanny sinking, I sat there wondering, pondering, thinking,
Deeply listening, lost amid those symphonic sounds of charnel things I so adore.
And those piles of DVDs and books, never flitting, still are growing, still not quiting,
As the pouting pallid bust of Hitchcock pouts even more.
And his eyes twinkle with all the seeming, of a reviewer that is dreaming,
Of untold treasures whose shadows throw their promises across the creaking floor.
And my blog from out those shadows darting over the floor,
Shall be written — ah, evermore,
As I go once more to Amazon, to surely order more.
