The Sandman:Part II (parody to The Raven)

The Sandman sat there lonely, and that one word he spoke only,
Just one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.
Nothing more I heard him say, as more I wanted break of day
And said this much if I may, “This much he’s seen before;
In the morning he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before.
Then he had said, “Nevermore.”

Startled now, my musings broken by his response so quickly spoken,
“Could it be that he should not leave till he hears me snore?
Should he not leave me be, then we will just have to see
If indeed that he will flee and leave me to be a bore
Such boredom is my curse I cannot sleep from such a bore,
Oh never-nevermore.”

Yet the Sandman kept me yearning, and my heart it was still burning
To sleep on a large mattress that was softer than the floor.
I took a chair and staring, which noticed he was wearing
A bag that started tearing and might leak its sand from days of yore
And this flying flitting faerie from the ancient days of yore
Meant in saying, “Nevermore.”

Intrigued and I began to wonder, just what could have been his blunder,
As the creature with the sand bag had been sentenced to my door.
And I laid back in reclining, secretly and inside repining
That the horrible old lining made my back ache on the floor,
The harder still mattress forced me to take refuge on the floor,
I shall press, ah, nevermore.

Watching him the night grew thicker, and my heart was some loud ticker,
Deeply pounding in my chest and nearly vibrating the floor,
“Stupid faerie, who has sent thee—what sore form has lent thee,
Give me rest and sweet nepenthe so that I shall never have to snore.
Make it so I will never tire or sleep and not to snore.”
Quoth the Sandman, “Nevermore.”

“Vision,” I said, “thing of torture, if not my eyelids shut with mortar,
Whether mattress or nails sharp, my aching back is sore.
A soft place was all I wanted, still it seems my bed is haunted
By a mattress so undaunted that it presses on my core,
Will I ever get a mattress that presses not into my core?”
Quoth the Sandman, “Nevermore.”

“Vision,” I said, “thing of torture, if not my eyelids shut with mortar,
Tell me this o faerie by the love of God that we adore.
Tell me for I grow do weary, and my heart is getting leery
That the object of my inquiry, shall be better that the floor.
Oh, the rare and radiant mattress that should be softer that my floor.
Quoth the Sandman, “Nevermore.”

“Get thee gone oh vile creature, let you leave not one lone feature,
Be it sand or canvas scrapings laid to rest upon my floor.
Leave nothing as a token of the one word which you have spoken
Leave this place unbroken as you leave from above my door.
Take your sand wedge from my heart; take your leave from off my door!”
Quoth the Sandman, “Nevermore.”

Thus the Sandman never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
And content to watch my troubles from just above my door.
He likes to watch me in my weeping, in tiresome weariness and weeping
That I cannot get to sleeping for the conditions of my floor,
For the mattress is so lumpy and much harder than my floor,
Feeling rested nevermore!