Once upon a Tuesday sunny, while I heard tales of Art's Bunny
Ham'ring many nails into boards with Pat - -
While I pounded, neatly beating, suddenly there came a bleating,
As of someone nearly screaming, screaming at some viscous bore.
"'Tis some worker," I muttered, "screaming at some vicious bore --
Only sound, and nothing more."
Ah, the sweltering heat of summer, which we all found quite a bummer,
As my hands did rising hurt and turn quite sore,
Eagerly I wished for closing, for I wished to do some nosing
Even wanted to try dozing -- dozing on for until I'd snore --
Far away from all the troubles of our supervisor's roar --
And his pink hat evermore.
And the voice it slowly thundered, many minds had it well sundered
Thrilled me -- filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
So I stopped my hammer's beating, to my self I was repeating,
"'Tis just someone putting off a much disturbing bore--
Some freak of nature sounding off to nearly start a war--
That is it and nothing more."
"Calmer now, I was most curious, who had voice that was this furious?
Anxiously I look beyond the threshold of the old barn door.
All I saw was piles of lumber, and I wondered, by some blunder,
Had I imagined the voice, while pounding on the concrete floor?
There came silence, nothing more.
Out the barn I now was peering, knowing not what I was fearing,
Hoping against hope that I had not recognized the voice of yore.
But the sound did not return, and as I waited more did yearn
Only to hear the sound which had awakened my curiosity before.
This I pondered, was it someone from the resale store?
On the ground I laid by boar
d.
Far outside the barn I stumbled, while my companions, they all grumbled
That we would not finish the headers or the corners or
The long ignored complex beam pockets, fitting nails in their sockets,
"We must do our duty!" came the cry from members of the Corps.
Fitting words from those so dedicated to mighty AmeriCorps.
So they said, from through the door.
In the sunlight I did spy, blinking darkness from my eye,
Shaking off visions of hammers from before.
I knew the face for it was Pat, standing there with his Pink hat,
With a finger to his lips thinking as of something o'er,
O'er the heads of us poor lowly, from his mouth he did our-pour:
"No, scratch that," and nothing more.
Simply shocked I reeled in terror (we had just dealt with the mayor,
And his habit of sticking his arse out to the fore)
I stood there with my jaw just flapping, whilst Amelia was rapping,
And Pat's foot it just kept tapping, tapping on the concrete floor.
And said again the words which do my mind fill up with gore:
"No scratch that," and nothing more.
From the scene I fled with hurry, wishing to escape the fury,
Of that wretched sound he uttered, uttered at least once before,
Out of that place I fled my doom, to the office's bathroom,
In my sanctuary 'Modest Bird' I do adore
But the sound it kept on coming, chilled me to the very core:
"No, scratch that," and nothing more.
That was long ago behind me, but was an event defined me,
Terror enfolded in that uniform I wore.
Even in my dreams I hear it, sleeping, waking, I do fear it,
Rustling through my mind's most closely guarded door,
"Please cease these voices in my head!" I did entreat, and beg, implore!
Now "No, scratch that," comes nevermore!