Lord Buckley and Edgar Allen Poe


     Gentle Readers,

     Since my wing is in the sling, allow the great Lord Buckley to hip you up to a cat with a raven. I read the poem so many times as a kid that I really need to revisit it when I become an adult.

       I present, for your pleasure, Lord Buckley~

  Yes, it’s interesting. So many people – Poe had so much depth and so much swing to him, that, well – people, you know, I was going to say another thing. When you start to fool with these classics you have the tremulous stature of a amateur architect goofing in the Taj Mahal. Say now, “There must be something I can do here.” So, it’s very dangerous work to begin with. But, Poe’s Raven, the Bugbird.The Bugbird, of course, is a little something, an idea, or a
fear that you get caught in your mind, and you throw
it out the front door vrrrrrpppttt in comes in the
back. You throw it out the keyhole vrrrrpppttt it
comes in the transom. You throw it left side vrrrppptt
it comes in right side. It’s the Bugbird. And, like I say,
Poe, Poe, Eddie Allen Poe was a swinger. He loved to
enjoy that good whiskey and chase them woody ladies
(?) all over the place, understand what I mean? And
he love to carry on and enjoy.
And he didn’t want that bird. He didn’t send for the bird. He
didn’t dig the bird. He didn’t even know what aviary
the bird came from. If they would have put the bird on
him postpaid he wouldn’t have dug it. But, just like I
say so many times, when you don’t need the bird, when
you don’t want the bird, when you haven’t got the
first possible use for the bird, vrrrppppt that’s when
you get it. And that’s what happen to poor Eddie. I want
you to picture that cat. He’s sitting in his pad. He’s all
spread out. He’s flipped, he’s flapped. He’s had it,
understand what I mean.
He can’t make it. If he had it he couldn’t swing it. So he’s
sitting there goofin’ the cool, you see what I mean. And
so he said, It was a real drug midnight dreary
I was goofing beat and weary
Over many a freakish volume of forgotten score
When suddenly there came a tapping
As if some cat were gently riffing
Knocking rhythm at my pad’s door.Ah, “’tis the landlady,” I muttered
On her broom she flies the rounding
Sounding for her rent
WHICH only this and nothing more.
Yea, so solid I remember,
It was in that wrought December
And it’s swingin’, jumpin’ ember
Blew it’s phantom upon the floor
Groovily I wooed the morrow
Still hung I sought to borrow
From my book kicks
To knock the sorrow
Sorrow for my gone Lenore
For that sweet, square but swingin’ maiden
Whom the fly chicks, that’s the angels, tagged Lenore
Nameless here forevermore.

And the silky wear deturning [?]
Of each upper curtain
Moved me, hung me
With freakish flipples
Never dug before.
So that now to cool the beating of my ticker
I stood repeating, “‘Tis some strange midnight stud
That’s sounding a money beat at my pad’s door.
A deuce to cool the morrow
Or some juice to drown his sorrow
Some lightweight riff this
And nothing more.
Jack!” I said, “Or Jilly, if I’ve crossed you.
Don’t jump sore
For the solid truth is
This cat was napping
And so cool did you come tapping
And so light hip you came rapping
Rhythm at my pad’s door
That I was scarce sure I dug you!”
Here I opened wide the slammer, Jack.
Swhoosh, I dug the breeze
And nothing more.

Now, you see what happen to this poor cat. He’s sitting in
his own pad, minding his own business and some cat is
knockin’ on his slammer. Ding, ding, ding, ding. And
when he go to open the door vrrrrppptt there ain’t
nobody there. So, the cat is subject to flip. He must
flip and he does.
Gone full out
I found the shutter
When with many a flip and flutter
In there stomped a king sized bugbird, Jack
From way back days of yore
Not a minute brought down was he.
Not a minute tipped or hung he.
But with stance of king and queen
He swung above my sweet pad’s door
Lit upon the bust of Palas.
Sat goofin’ there and nothing more.

“Unsolid hip,” said I, “That you’re no craven
Gasser grim and beat up raven
Goofin’ from the night’s Plutonian shore.
Swing hip me to what thy tag is
on the night’s Plutonian shore.”
Flip the bugbird, “NEVERMORE.”
Solid wig me this bird to dig me
Though it copped out not upon the score
For we cannot help it
Being that no single human being
Ever was so sent by seeing a wig like this
Above his pad’s door
With such a tag as: Nevermore

Now, you see, Poe’s trying every way he can to
communicate with this bugbird. ‘Cause this bugbird’s
vrrrpppttt blowing all that heat on him. He even tries
sympathy. He looks at the bugbird and says,
No doubt this single seater has flipped his meter.
He comes on automatic to the core.
Still flipped by some unhappy gasser,
Some unmerciful disaster swung fast and hot hipped faster,
‘Til his lick one verdune (?) bore
So help me God I think he digs it,
This beat up lick of never more!

Now, you see, Poe, like I say, he gets so tired trying to
communicate with this bugbird that he flips and he
goes out and drinks up a lot of that ignorant oil,
understand. And he comes back with a giant king-sized
hangover, see. Well now, he don’t want the bird to
know he’s feeling bad, see, for fear the bird put more
heat on him, see. So, he’s got to come out under the
rock real happy like, a big act. He said,

“Hey, what you say bird?!”

The Bird say, “NEVERMORE!”

Say, “The milkman get here yet?”


Say, “Well, who won in the fifth race?”

Say, “NEVERMORE!!!!”

I think he laid one too many nevermores on Eddie. I don’t
know how much they weigh but it was just enough to
snap that Einsenglas at the end of the fuse, and blow
the whole gig. ‘Cause Poe now wants to divorce the
bird. Before he divorces him, he gets very salty with
him. He looks at the bird and says,
“Hiphead, Hiphead,
Rat wing of bad kicks, hiphead still,
If bugbird of feather devil,
By the heaven’s that swing above us,
By The Nazz we both adore.
Is there, is there somewhere within that destination
I’ll get with that swingin’ maiden
Whom the fly chicks tagged Lenore.”
Flipped the Bugbird, “NEVERMORE!”
And the final bout that Poe has with this black, black bird.
He looks at him and says,
Umm mmmmm, by this lick you have flipped my meter,
You nauseous gasser, you endless repeater!
Split before I blow my red hot stack,
Go back to your Plutonian shore.
Leave no feather on my heather,
Take your black jazz, blow together,
Leave this pad my torch unbroken,
Split from the roost above my door,
Flipped the Bugbird, “NEVERMORE!”


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Filed under essays, fiction, poetry, Uncategorized

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