Oh, weep for Adonais—he's undead!
And hath been, lo! these interstitial years!
Yellow and black and pale and hectic red,
His cockney mood consumptively careers.
Upon a bubbling Hippocrene he's drunk
And dreaming, standing tiptoe on the brink
Of the wide world that sinks (Byron's a punk)
As love and fame to nothingness do sink.
An anguished autumn wind doth howl a HOWL
Of abject grief that sweeps the graveyard's stones.
The sickle moon observes the downy owl
That eats a mouse from tail to skull and bones.
Zombie Allan Poe, who's green and obscene,
Is sobbing, "Happy Birthday Halloween!"