An abecedarian lounging on the stair,
abandoned his studies and turned to thin air;
an incorporeal phantom gave him a fright,
extemporaneously freed from the alphabet’s bite.
From the book’s weathered spine out popped the ghost
bent on foulness at least, a kerfuffle at most,
and set about haunting the poor student forthwith
howling and moaning and indescribably glib
sarcastic, bombastic, ironic, trochaic!
Alarmingly witty, and unwholesomely prosaic!
The abecedarian fled from the hall,
batting the shades taunting his eyeballs.
“Help me! The words! They will not stop coming!”
But halfway across campus he went down stumbling,
bumbling, haphazard, knees knocking apace
he scrabbled in the grass for earthly embrace.
The ghost, all manic and mad and very, very eerie
took pity on the lad and blew away cheery.
Poltergeist gone, the student reclined
safe (maybe) he hoped from meter and rhyme.
Yet pockets of poetry haunted him thereafter,
dangling icicles of verse in metaphoric disaster…
That night over the country alphabet rained good and hard;
twisted similes hit the ground like blood on the sward.
Funky weather filled with letters plopped, splattered and burst
It was purple for days. The worst weather, I durst.