unreliable

[Steve Maas]

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of postmodern lore,
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at the p-list door.
"'Tis some visiter," I muttered, "tapping at the p-list door --
Only this, and nothing more."

Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak June gloom,
When each separate p-list poster wrought a missive Nabokovian
Eagerly I wished the morrow; -- vainly I had tried to borrow
>From my books surcease of sorrow -- sorrow for the lost LePynchon--
For the rare and radiant writer whom the litcrits name LePynchon--
Dids't move to Livermore?

--Edgar Allan Maas


Dave Meury wrote:
>I know, Nabokov and or Pynchon but not Poe.

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