The Bell-Phony

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Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of rock-and-roll lore—
While I danced, softly swaying, there arose a sudden tapping,
As of someone gently rapping, rapping at my studio door.
“’Tis some engineer,” I muttered, “come to tell me something more—
Probably ‘bout the mix—nothing more.”

Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before;
But the silence was unbroken, and the quiet left no token,
And the only sound there spoken was a phantom rhythmic throb at my core—
Whispered softly, faintly echoed from beyond the studio door.
Merely this, and nothing more? Wait, no!
It whispered: “More.”

Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,
Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.
“Surely,” said I, “surely that is something at my window lattice;
Let me see what waits beyond it, and this mystery to explore—
Let my heart be still a moment while this mystery I explore;
’Tis a cowbell, nothing more!”

Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,
In there stepped a guest immortal from a wild decade of yore;
Not a single bow he made me; not a second stopped or stayed he;
With a fevered look, he seized it, struck a rhythm on my floor—
Struck a heavy-metal cowbell right upon my studio floor—
“Only cure,” he cried, “is more!”

And the cowbell, never silent, keeps on clanging, loud and violent,
On the plastic bust of Elvis just above my studio door;
And its beats have all the seeming of a groove that won't stop dreaming,
While the lamp-light over it streaming, throws its shadow on the floor;
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
Shall be lifted—nevermore!