You’d think that with the Buckeyes being undefeated, and one of my favorite holidays, Halloween, approaching, I would be as happy as a drunk in a brewery. But I think Halloween is having some weird effects on me, because I have been having some damned crazy dreams as of late.One in particular has been bothering me lately. So, with all due respect to Edgar Allan Poe, here is the one that has been haunting me the most. Read on with caution, fearless readers and true believers, for this nightmare is scarier than anything Stephen King could ever hope to dream up. I call it, ‘Fong’s Raven.’
Once upon a midnight dreary, while I drank, weak and weary,A case of Pabst Blue Ribbon I had purchased at the store–While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,As for someone gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.”Tis my roommate Greg,’ I muttered. ‘Lost his key at the door–Only this and nothing more.’
Ah distinctly, I remember it was in the bleak November,And each Biakabutka yard left me lying on the floor.Eagerly I wished the morrow–vainly I had tried to borrowFrom my beer surcease of sorrow–sorrow for last year’s score–For that debacle in Ann Arbor that kept us from Pasadena’s shore,Nameless here forever more.
Presently my drunkeness grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,’Greg,’ said I ‘Hey fatso, truly your forgiveness I implore;But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,That I scarce was sure I heard you’–here I opened wide the door;Darkness there and nothing more.
Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,Doubting dreams no mortal dared to dream before;But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token,And the only word there spoken were the whispered words,’The score.’This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the words,’The score!’Merely this and nothing more.
Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,In there stepped a stately Raven of the saintly days of yore;Perched upon a bust of dear Woody, just above my chamber door,Perched and sat, and nothing more.
Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,’Tell me what thy lordly name is on the night’s Olentangy shore!’Quoth the raven ‘Bucks can’t score.’
‘Surely bird, you are joking, this year there will be no choking,with Stanley’s throws and Pace’s pancakes;this year’s team has what it takes–to send the Wolverines back to Lake Michigan shore.’Quoth the raven, ‘Bucks can’t score.’
Then upon my hangover sinking, I thought I had done too much drinking,Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore–What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt and ominous bird of yore,meant in croaking, ‘Bucks can’t score.’
‘Prophet,’ said I, ‘thing of evil! Prophet still, if bird or devil!By that Heaven that bends above us–by that Woody we both adore–I remember all too well last year’s score!’Quoth the raven, ‘Bucks can’t score.’
And that raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sittingOn the pallid bust of Woody just above my chamber door;And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon that is dreaming’And the Bud light o’er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floorShall be lifted–nevermore!
See kids, I told you it was a damn scary nightmare. Happy Halloween, and go Buckeyes!
David Fong is a graduating senior from Troy, Ohio, majoring in journalism and ghost stories. He’s gonna be a pirate for Halloween.
