Edgar Allan Poe says Thank You

My unsuccessful entry in Martin Parker's light verse competition for Issue 8 of Lighten up Online. The theme was to have a famous writer in history respond to receiving a modern gadget as a present - maximum 16 lines. http://www.lightenup-online.co.uk/Issue_8/Poems/Competition_8.htm - for the winning entries.

I thank you for this mobile phone, sir,
With its dreary ringing tone, sir,
Though ‘tis true, I have to own, sir,
That I know not what it’s for.

Despite its self-proclaimed mobility,
Sadly, it lacks real agility,
Sitting silent in tranquility
In the shadows ‘pon the floor.

Can one use it in a duel?
Or is’t a type of fossil fuel?
Or maybe some strange-lustred jewel
Hewn from Lethe’s darkened shore?

Was it cast o’erboard by seamen
For it housed some deathly demon
That, when mortal souls were dreamin’,
Crept forth with a ghastly claw?

Diana Ross

Diana Ross was at a loss
To what she should do next.
She hadn’t thought her day in court
Would leave her so perplexed.
In her denial, she said the trial
Was one almighty fudge.
She said “I feel I must appeal
To the Supreme Court judge.”

RSI

The mother of Thackeray Ponsonby-Twyst
Suffered repetitive strain to the wrist
She got it, she claimed, to Judge Rory O’Carroll,

Through writing his name out on his school apparel

On arriving at Philadelphia airport

Down the steps of the plane we descended
But tarmac was not what we found.
Cream cheese! Oh, delicious and splendid,
Was spread two feet thick on the ground.

Flight US792

The flight was very long and very boring,
The screaming child was getting on my goat.
The large, obese man next to me was snoring.
I had a sudden urge to slit his throat.

I tried to go to sleep through self-hypnosis
After spending forty minutes counting sheep.
But all I got was slight deep-vein thrombosis
When just my feet and legs were put to sleep.

Voice from the grave

Here I lie beneath this stone,
Quite unattended and alone.
No-one’s ever shed a tear
Since they first interred me here.
The wood surround that marks this plot
Long, long ago began to rot
And now lies broken, badly splintered.

Yes, two hundred years I’ve wintered
In this corner ‘neath the yew
That blocks the morning sunlight’s view.
The clay is cold, the weeds like thick,
The autumn comes around too quick.
How many long-forgotten bones
Rot silently beneath these stones?

I do not have for company
The wife and children dear to me
For, victim of tradition’s slave,
They occupy another grave,
Where still they moan and bitch and bawl,
Because I murdered one and all.