Once upon a midnight bumpin’, while I listened, beat a’ thumpin’,
To several dope sick mixtapes, fire from the years before—
   While I rocked out, loudly clapping, suddenly there came a tapping,
Like someone was gently rapping, rapping at my bedroom door.
“’It’s just some poser,” I muttered, “rapping at my bedroom door— 5
           It’s just that and nothing more.”

​

    I remember it was boring early that December morning;
Each and every carton spoiling, lacking snacks we needed more.
   All my feelings in a flurry; —quickly, I had hoped to hurry
   From my mixtapes peace from worry— worry for my lost Lenore—
For the sweet and klutzy shorty whom the nurses named Lenore— 11
           Hope she’s not lost at the store.

​

    I opened the door, real annoyed, hoping it was just some homeboy,
But out there was a janky Raven with gold chains (“what it do, boi?”)
   Looking at me like a thug; Like I was some wimpy bug;
   Wingin’ past me and settlin’ all snug, snug behind my bedroom door—
Right by my Wu Tang Poster, next to my bedroom door— 17
           Snug, and set, and nothing more.

​

Then this brotha started movin’ my nervous feelings into groovin’,
By its cool wings and the nature of that stunting bling it wore,
“Though you can’t speak or flow ya word, you,” I said, “ain’t no punk bird,
Feathered lil’ homie from the streets of Baltimore—
Tell me what ya name is from the streets of Baltimore!” 23
           Raps the Raven “Evermore.”

​

    “Dumb bird!” said I, “what the heck—dumb bird, what up? What you know?
By the power of Eminem—by that rapper we both adore—
   Tell ya brother, if it’s aight that within that dismal Shoprite,
   Standing all alone in the night, stands a lady named Lenore—

My super caring shorty, holding grocery bags galore.” 29
           Raps the Raven “Evermore.”

​

    And poor Lenore, always willing, still is chilling, still is chilling
On some rusty bench or sidewalk just outside the Shoprite door;
   And her eyes have all the fire that a demon’s might inspire,
   And her grocery bags grow higher, spilling food upon the floor;
And my L Dog’ rounds the parking lot, still searching for the store -35
           So she’ll run errands—nevermore!