Inspired by Poe and The Bard?

For not I, for the breath inside my chest cease this dreadful muse of style, I re-whit a robbery of mine from yon thread which is hence. For now my muse be The Bard and poet Poe I examine mine mind vain in attempt and pointless of purpose write thus.

I arose in the eighth hour of day half past. Whence I to the kitchen journeyed then, the elixir I sought be hot yet not fresh for mine sister of older birth had prepared it upon her wake at the fifth hour. Being I grateful that mine swollen head from the night priors libations, have not to clumsily fumble and fool the wretched machine to fill myself, took an offering from the pot.

A fortnight I had been here hence. Sought I employment on each day at the ninth hour within the web. Upon the noon hour I then depart to seek the elusive job for my part. Each day defeated I returned.

A hope! A message been delivered unto me, the messenger of Yahoo has foretold this. Quickly my fingers dash and click on yon alert I do with haste. Only to find a fools offering from the land of Nigeria to me. Curses I retort and shut thus the box.

A quick check to the land of tinfoil hats reveals I have yet another message within. A light so red and bright before me exclaims U2U, a message awaits!

Upon it opening and loading the screen I find no subject yet author’s name. I open the message and what do I find? But a nice hello from a friend of mine. Lest not I met this friend and hand doth I shook. But online I report this man my friend as one.

In the land of tinfoil hats, a myriad of wondrous and incredible tales are told. Some are fished out to the brethren as hoax. Be not we here afraid of thus slander and lies. For fact check they hath done and sought with prying eyes truth hidden by veil and from noble alike.

Oh I see that it is her in the land of tinfoil hats. She hath appeared and responded to some work of mine. This woman delightful to behold yet wretched to know as only friend, doth torture me hence with word and glimpse. Mine thoughts turn to a lovers embrace and fantasy fills my head as if a film of lovers unwed.

I again turn to the page and head for pastures unsought a notice of news when I read I was shocked. Upon examination of the article entwined a hoax was found to the subject’s crime. A sigh of relief filled the air as knowledge of safe people showed I care.

Be I not poet or bard, I thus believe I hath failed in this quest of mine. Ney my story not rhyme nor is it the work of Shakespeare but my own. A cataclysmic failure hence I pose you thus to write. Better ye be at the Queen’s own English I dare hope. And works of fine literary I hope I prey ye retort.

Arise mine fellow countrymen of the land of tinfoil hats. Write thy prose as bard or Poe and thus we laugh at this comedy and be merry.

Alas not reply nor flag in this forgotten thread. For it saddens me to see not merriment nor accompaniment to mine aforementioned thought. Be there none that hear the call? Nay but a single post doth this page have writ.

This thread doth it stench of vile rot and decay? Nay for word it is and not deed. Send not thine reply upon its door? Alas but one enumeration cast upon this thread be my own. Tis this comedy became tragedy in it's infancy.

Pray I to thee ones that frequent this hallowed place to riposte, for love is mine for word to write, and thus to revel in imaginations of thine.

To share of spark imaginations manifest, say not I a fool nor clown, be it so apparently true. I beg not for accolade, nay, but I seek and sought fortitude of brotherhood from those whom write in prose as alike to the bard or Poe.

Be ye not a poet ashamed. No rhyme required nor perfect act. But for levity be required only.

Shalt not thus a conversation ensue? To writ and re-whit perhaps, for is there none that a story have, that may write thee as such? To tale be told as bard or Poe, for is it yes, be it too much to ask?

But nay I say as I write thus. Complex not the olden tongue. For to speak plainly wrought many a poet to despair. And thus asunder they lay, with page and pen doth hast done them in.

For now a generation hence, the poets pen replaced by key. As the artists brush, photo shop hath become it's surrogate. Be now then to remain silent and cast not anew the olden tongue as to art?

For none a tale to be told? None among you to write as such? My heart doth sadden and break, as to see shakespeare lie in his walled grave. For I have seen his bust and plaque. There in Stratford on Avon he yet now cries, for the art that was his plays surely not hath ended.

For not I ask for play or poem, but story hence a discord and congress be met. Perhaps I spake not for thee, perhaps to ask what of their work hast thee in amusement partook? Hath thee a favorite work from the bard or Poe that thee saw thyself within? For perhaps to tell this tale hence, as to ignite our imaginations, and breath life into woe olden tongue once more as to poetry or play.

What say thee?

From whence did thou learneth thy speakings?

A spread of flowers lay 'neath thy bards feet to showeth fair commraderie and admiration!

So sayeth,
~Ducky~