The Penguin

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,
On that ghastly second series where we simply couldn’t score -
While I nodded, vaguely thinking, suddenly there came a clinking
As of someone calmly drinking, drinking on the lower floor.
“‘Tis the central heating,” thought I, “clinking underneath the floor -
Only this and nothing more.”

Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December,
Though the match was in September, still I felt distinctly sore.
Eagerly I wished the morrow, for I had a yen to borrow
That new book on Henry Thoreau from my friend in Bangalore -
For he said he’d pass through Cambridge going back to Bangalore -
This I wished for, nothing more.

And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain
Was now growing disconcertingly much harder to ignore;
As my brain it did encumber, I had lost all hope of slumber,
But I had a goodly number of beer bottles in my store -
And some good red wine and very fine French brandy in my store -
All of which I quite adore.

At this thought my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
Off in search of something stronger than the tea I drank before,
In anticipation splendid I got out of bed, and then did
Up my bathrobe and descended for a beer or three or four -
For I thought I’d sleep much better if I had, say, three or four -
Only that, and nothing more.

Deep into the darkness peering (burnt-out bulb my pitch was queering),
Something seemed to be adhering to my slipper on the floor;
But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token,
And the only word there spoken was when suddenly I swore -
For I stubbed my toe most painfully, and so of course I swore -
Merely this and nothing more.

Then towards the kitchen turning – still my toe with pain was burning,
And I felt a sudden yearning for a pie, with chips galore;
Though my mood was fairly breezy, all at once I felt quite queasy,
And at that I was uneasy till I realised, at the door -
Yes, the reason was quite clear as I approached the kitchen door -
‘Twas the wind, and nothing more.

And as I began to mutter, “Maybe just some bread and butter,”
Words I simply could not utter rose within me by the score:
For the light’s illumination showed a scene of devastation,
And the jubilant gyration of a penguin on the floor -
Bloody penguin who’d been drinking my French brandy on the floor -
And the beer and wine, what’s more!

Though he thought he looked beguiling, I most surely wasn’t smiling;
I at once began reviling him in language far from pure.
“How the devil did you get in? Bugger off, you feathered cretin!
I won’t have some gormless pet intruding on my liquor store,
So begone, or none shall guess the dreadful fate that lies in store!”
Quoth the penguin, “Nevermore.”

Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,
As he tottered round insanely like a skiff that’s lost an oar;
Yet it hardly seemed to matter that in English he could chatter
When I felt I’d like to batter him to even up the score -
I would put that bird in hospital to even up the score -
Then he’d bug me nevermore.

But the penguin, growing weary, seemed to look up with a query,
And his eyes were crossed and bleary as he lurched around the floor;
So, my anger partly mastered, I said, “Look, you little bastard,
If you weren’t so bloody plastered I would boot you out the door -
I would pick you up and boot you like a football through the door.”
Then the bird said, “Nevermore.”

Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
“Doubtless,” said I, “that’s a token of remorse you’ve used before;
But if you’re an alcoholic, then the problem’s metabolic,
And you may repeat your frolic when your noddle’s not so sore -
For you’ve had so much to drink I’m sure your head is very sore -
Hence ‘Never – nevermore’.”

Almost then he was beguiling my outraged soul into smiling,
For he waddled round the tiling like a sailor come to shore;
Then, against a cupboard sinking, much the worse for all his drinking,
Both of fish and brandy stinking, gently he began to snore -
And the syllables he murmured as he slid into the snore
Once again were “Nevermore”.

I shall leave the reader guessing just what thoughts I was expressing
As I noticed he’d been messing up my Palestrina score;
But the sun would soon be shining, and the creature was reclining
There in slumber by my dining table, nowhere near the door -
And I knew I couldn’t wake him up to put him out the door -
And, that night, he’d drink no more.

Then, methought, since sleep had fled me, to the study I would head me;
I could not go back to bed – mistake that would have been, for sure.
I confess that I was haunted still by vengeful thoughts unwanted,
So decided, nothing daunted, that I’d play Rome: Total War -
Yes, I’d work out all my feelings as my hoplites went to war -
For I could do nothing more.

Profit made I from my labours (hope I didn’t wake the neighbours);
I had cavalry with sabres, and of towns they took a score.
It was splendidly exciting, but at last I tired of fighting;
As the early sky was lighting I went down again to pour
Just a simple glass of fruit juice, which was all that I could pour,
Since my liquor was no more.

Profit, said I? How ironic! For the loss, I fear, was chronic,
Like a mighty storm cyclonic that damned bird had wrecked my store;
Yet, although I’d left him snoozing in the aftermath of boozing,
What was really quite confusing was his absence from the floor -
There was nothing but a feather and some guano on the floor -
Only that, and nothing more.

“Let that be our sign of parting, bird or fiend!” I muttered, starting
On the cleaning, my eyes darting round the room for clues it bore;
But apart from bottles broken, I could find no other token
Of the penguin who had spoken ere I dealt him out what-for -
And I must confess, I still desired to give that bird what-for,
Though he’d hiccupped, “Nevermore.”

And this tipsy bird unfitting may be sitting, may be shitting,
Once again the bottle hitting upon someone else’s floor;
But I’ll give him no temptation in my current situation,
For there’s now a combination lock upon my liquor store -
And a mortise on the window, and a deadlock on the door -
And he’ll rob me nevermore!

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Oh well, thanks for the reminder!