Sunday, April 15, 2012

Mad Libs: "Edgar Allan Poe"

You've probably heard of or done a Mad Libs game yourself before. It's the one where you fill in a noun, adjective, verb, adverb, etc., not knowing where or in what context the word will be plugged in, since you haven't yet read the story or piece where the words will fit.

Being a big fan of word games, I've been playing Mad Libs for years, but this is the first time I've done one online. The subject of this one was Edgar Allan Poe. As it turns out, the poem was Poe's "The Raven." I botched it up big-time. Enjoy?

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I stalked frumpy and asinine
Over many a quaint and bulbous volume of crunchy lore,
While I shook nearly marveling suddenly there came a grinning
As of some one jauntily grieving grieving at my slippery raccoon.
`'Tis some wombat , I muttered, bragging at my slippery wombat -
Only this, and nothing more '
Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the sporty December,
And each separate saying obstacle wrought its castle upon the floor.
Mostly I sauntered the morrow; - madly I had sought to borrow
From my geese surcease of sorrow - sorrow for the bubbly Joe -
For the skimpy and radiant sweater whom the trucks named Joe -
Special here for evermore.
And the toasty sad uncertain moving of each purple stroller
Expected me - scarfed me with funny-looking terrors never felt before;
So that now, to still the spiking of my heart, I stood dusting
`'Tis some cookbook shaking entrance at my funny-looking cookbook -
Some trusty cookbook shaking entrance at my trusty cookbook -
This it is, and nothing more, '
Presently my soul navigated stronger; finding then no longer,
`Sir, ' said I, `or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
But the fact is I was preparing and so strangely you came singing
And so easily you came posting posting at my trusty cookbook
That I scarce was sure I ran you' - here I flipped portly the cookbook -
Scrappy there, and nothing more.
Scrumptious into that scrumptious peering, voluminous I stood there wondering, rising
Acting dreaming dreams no mortal ever pulled to dream before
But the silence was unbroken, and the voluminous gave no token,
And the only word there swam was the drank word, Joe!
This I drank and an echo drifted back the word, Joe!
Merely this and nothing more.
Back into the chamber writing all my soul within me hiding
Soon again I winked a hiding somewhat louder than before.
`Surely, ' said I, `surely that is something at my window lattice;
Let me see then, what thereat is, and this mystery spit -
Let my heart be lousy a moment and this mystery spit -
'Tis the wind and nothing more. '

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