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August 28, 2012

A parody of "The Raven" by Edgar Allan Poe. The haunting story of one man's encounter with a prostitute who then gives him a venereal disease.


The Vixen

Once upon a midday dreary while I sifted piqued and cheery,
Over many a queer and disturbing volume of illegal porn,
While I pleasured, quickly fapping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As if something was gently rapping, rapping on my 'partment door.
“Tis the prostitute!” I shouted, “finally tapping on my 'partment door,
Only this and nothing more.”

Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December,
And every fiber of my member wrought its will upon this whore.
So eagerly I had wished to tap it, vainly I forgot to wrap it,
So wont was I to fap it - fap it from behind my bedroom door,
To the rare and radiant maidens who undressed behind my door,
Nameless here 'cause they’re in porn.

And the silken sad uncertain removing of her clothing’s curtain,
Thrilled me – filled me with fantastic urges never felt before,
So that then, to the rapid beating of my heart, I stood repeating,
“Don’t mind me now entreating entrance to your ‘magic door’ -
Bother not me now entreating entrance to your magic door,
After all, you are a whore.”

Nextly did my zeal grow stronger, as my johnson did grow longer,
“Sir,” said I, “Er… Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore,
But the fact is I was randy and so sweet you looked like candy,
And so hotly you were standing, standing outside my apartment door,
Wearing scarcely nothing” – here I opened wide her magic door…
Darkness opened, I tried to score.

Deep into that darkness plunging, long I thrusted, pushing, lunging,
Doubting, thinking things no mortal ever dared to think before,
But her smooth skin was unbroken and her darkness gave no token,
And the only thing there spoken was the whisper “Can I go back door?”
This I whispered, and in an echo she responded “That’ll cost you more.”
Merely this and nothing more.

Back into her chamber hurling, but something down below me burning,
It felt just like a fire but one I’ve never felt before.
“Surely,” said I, “that is something at my bluejean zipper,
Making whoopie not so chipper; let’s this mystery explore,
Let my pelvis cease a moment and this mystery explore,
Tis my bluejeans, nothing more!”

Down below I flung my gazes, when, in a sight that still amazes,
Out there cropped a stately blister like a classic genitalia sore.
Not the least aesthetic made he, not a pleasant thought he bade me,
But, from out this defiled lady, perched upon my pelvis in oozing pus galore,
Perched upon my crotch and pelvis in oozing pus galore,
Perched and oozed, and nothing more.

There this blister stood beguiling my sad fancy into whining,
By the grave and drastic implications that its presence bore.
“Though my loins be clean and shaven, thou” I said “art sure no craven,
Gross and grim you’ve taken haven upon my manly shore;
Tell me who in my lord’s name is she who cast ye 'pon my manly shore.”
Quoth the blister “Twas the whore.”

Much I marveled this ungainly sore to hear discourse so plainly,
And its answer full of meaning, much relevancy bore,
For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being,
Ever yet was cursed with seeing a talking genitalia sore -
No bird or beast was ever cursed with talking genitalia sores,
That spoke the sentence “Twas the whore.”

But the blister, sitting lonely on my shaven crotch, spoke only,
That one phrase, as if all his pus in that one spiel he did outpour.
Nothing further then he uttered, no more fluid did he sputter,
Till I childishly muttered, “Other warts have healed before,
On the morrow you’ll be cured, as my warts have healed before.”
Said the blister, “Nevermore.”

Startled at the hope now broken by reply so harshly spoken,
“Doubtless”, said I, “this contraction is an ailment of a rare décor,
Caught from this salacious vixen who must have done a lot of mixin',
Let a few too many dicks in and now I have this ghastly sore,
Now the dirges of my hope shall play a slow and melancholy score,
Entitled, 'She’s a whore'.”

But the blister still beguiling my sad fancy into whining,
Straight I wheeled the vixen round for I could carry on no more.
So, upon the velvet blanket, I betook myself to wank it,
Fancy unto fancy, I’ll spank it to this bawdy whore,
This grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, asymptomatic whore,
Who croaked, “That’ll be a dollar more.”

My bills I sat engaged in counting, but no sum thereat amounting,
To the price she’d asked as my eyes did gaze upon her bosom’s core.
At these and more I sat in pining, with my head rolled back reclining,
On the blanket’s velvet lining I just sprayed my man-seed o’er,
But against the velvet violet lining I just sprayed my man-seed o’er,
A dame shall press, ah, nevermore!

Oh, methought, the night grew gloomy, for now no broad would ever do me,
With this sickness given by the girl whose foot-falls leave my tufted floor.
“Pox!” I cried, “What God has sent thee – by what demons has he lent thee?
Return – return from whence you came, to the loins of that whore!
Quaff, oh quaff this penicillin that I may soon forget this vile whore!"
Quoth the blister, “Nevermore.”

"Sickness!" said I, "Thing of curses! Sickness that my pants immerses!
Whether virus sent, or germ that tossed thee 'pon my oar,
Lest my hopes be dim and daunted, by my privates which you've haunted,
Permit this wish that I have wanted - tell me truly, I implore,
Is there - is there balm at CVS? - tell me - tell me, I implore!"
Quoth the blister, "Nevermore."

"Sickness!" said I, "Thing of curses! Sickness that my pants immerses!
By that health that fades before me, by that plight to which I'm lured,
Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, by design of God or Satan,
I who grazed that minxish maiden can in time be cured?
I who grazed that minxish maiden ever shall be free and cured?"
Quoth the blister, "Nevermore."

"Let that word be sign we've parted, sore and fiend!" I shrieked and farted,
"Get thee back into that vixen and her mangy unkempt drawers!
Leave no scarlet scars as token of that err I made in pokin',
Leave my pasty skin unbroken - quit this cruel and abject war!
Take thy rash from out my undies and cease-fire in this war!"
Quoth the blister, "Nevermore."

And the blister, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting,
On my shaven crotch and pelvis as a ghastly genitalia sore,
And his pus has all the searing of a fire that is nearing,
And my manly shore it’s shearing as I try to look at porn,
And my member nigh that blister as I try to look at porn,
Shall be lifted - nevermore!