Three red roses placed on his grave
And a toast to the fair raven's friend
A master of words, born to die young
A poet with an untimely end
His Tell Tale heart now silent and still
Never to be heard anymore
But weeping still heard, tears fall like rain
From the spirit that he called Lenore
Forty years old when his quill ran dry
And could barely even make out a sound
"Lord help my soul" were the last words he spoke
Before they buried him deep in the ground
He wrote of the darkness that haunted his soul
And the spirits that invaded his mind
Sanity was tempting him just out of reach
The one thing that Poe couldn't find
A bottle of cognac and three red roses
A stranger would place on his grave
A small price to pay to the poet of poets
For all of the joy he gave