The Raven by Editor Once upon a Friday dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary, Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore, While I nodded, nearly napping, on TV there came a chanting, Of a young girl who was ranting, ranting "Someone's at the door!" "'Tis some horror show," I muttered, as the wind blew ope' the door-- "Only this, and nothing more." Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak September, And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor. Eagerly I watched the program;--sought relief from dreaded boredom, But I never looked for more than--more than what I'd seen before-- On countless other programs, programs that were such a bore- Nameless here for evermore. Then a tall man soon appearing, so intense he set me fearing, Thrilled me--filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before; So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating, "'Tis a sheriff that you're seeing, going in the farmhouse door-- A good sheriff that you're seeing, going in the farmhouse door;-- This it is, and nothing more." Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer, I began to watch that program, tingling as I watched some more; But the sheriff I was seeing, as the show was soon revealing, Was no good guy, though appealing, appealing to my very core, So I looked to find some lightness--in that sheriff I adore;-- Darkness there, and nothing more. Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing, Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortals ever dared to dream before; But the darkness soon was broken, though a young girl he had choken, When his glib charm was awoken, and I found I wanted "More!" This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the words, "Please more!"-- Merely this, and nothing more. Towards the television turning, all my soul within me burning, Soon again I felt a yearning, somewhat stronger than before. "Surely," said I, "surely this is, something near what I think bliss is: Let me see, then, what this wish is, and this mystery explore-- Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore;-- 'Tis Lucas Buck--can there be more?" Open then he flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter, My heart stopped as he called after his son, who did ignore; Not the least response made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he; Paused not, as his father bade he, but went running for the shore-- That young Caleb he kept running, running towards the river shore-- This he did, and nothing more. Then this sheriff soon was preying, for that boy who, disobeying, Had burned the home where he'd been staying, though his family was quite poor. Soon the young boy was returning, for in his heart there was a burning, A deep yet complicated yearning, to help a man found on the floor-- To save a frightened, tongueless, freezing man upon the floor Frozen there forevermore. Much I marvelled this delightful television show so frightful, For its insights so much meaning--so much relevancy bore; For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being Ever yet was blest with seeing so much fright with little gore-- Such a program, could it stay on? Showing fear but little gore? Quoth Les Moonves, "Nevermore." I saw a raven, sitting lonely, as one mission had he only, And that mission was to prove that TV didn't have to bore. Nothing further then he uttered--not a feather then he fluttered-- Till I scarcely more than muttered, "other shows have tried before-- On the morrow 'twill be cancelled, as my shows have been before." Then the bird said, "Nevermore." But the Raven still beguiling all my fancy into smiling, Made me think to write this Moonves man I did abhor Then upon the sofa sinking, I betook myself to linking Website unto website, thinking thousands will implore-- If we organize the gothniks, maybe thousands will implore "Save our show forevermore." Then methought the air grew denser, judgement from an unseen censor Had entered the equation, where there had been none before. "Wretch," I cried, "thy network sent thee--the Les Moonves devil lent thee Power--but oh, please, repent thee? Save this show that we adore? Please, oh please, I beg, repent thee! Save this show that we adore!" Quoth the censor, "Nevermore." "Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil!--prophet still, if man or devil!-- Whether Moonves sent, or whether ratings tossed thee here ashore, Desolate yet all undaunted, on this TV show enchanted-- For Caleb by horror haunted--tell me truly, I implore-- Is there--is there hope from Moonves?--tell me--tell me, I implore!" Quoth the censor, "Nevermore." "Be that word our sign in parting, spokesman or fiend," I shrieked upstarting-- "Get thee back into the tempest--to Moonves whom we abhor!" Back to Black Rock take this token of that lie thy soul hath spoken! Take this pen, as yet unbroken!--Do what you must outside my door! Take this pen--you know its purpose, and use it just outside my door! Join old Gage--forevermore!" And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting On top the television just behind my chamber door; And he smiles because I show now, after all these eps I know how To make things happen like the Sheriff I so faithfully adore-- Like that tall and handsome Sheriff I so ardently adore-- Lucas Buck--forevermore!