Once upon a weekend weary, in a house that was quite eerie, There were many a quaint and curious option of household décor While I sat glibly condoning, suddenly there came a moaning, As of someone gently droning, groaning outside of my door. “Tis just a gust of wind,” I muttered, “Outside of my door. “Only this, and nothing more.” In the doorway, I stood shiv’ring, no wind blew, but knees were quiv’ring, Hearing screaming scream no mortal ever dared to scream before. As the silence thus was broken, surely dead had been awoken, But the only word there spoken was the whispered word, “Wherefore?” This I whispered and a ghastly voice howled back the word, “Wherefore?” Only this did the voice roar. Out into the hallway turning, finding the source my one yearning, Soon I heard a groaning somewhat louder than before. “Surely,” said I, “surely that is someone being tortured, dying, I must help them or die trying,” and so I stepped along the floor. Another howling at that moment, as I stepped along the floor. Not the wind, but something more. As I walked, I brushed the paper, and, from the wall burst virulent vapor, Thus it summoned rapt attention to the place I did ignore. Flowers plastered on the wall there, screaming like a banshee’s bawl there, Giving me more than a small scare, snared outside my chamber door. Snared souls writhing in the paper just outside my chamber door. Snared, and screaming, in décor. Soon those peonies’ caterwauling had the poor wall’s plaster falling, And my bruised and battered eardrums could scarcely tolerate much more “Truly this must be a caper, thou,” I said, “are not from draper, Ghastly grim and ancient paper, haunting this home’s hallway core. Tell me now you’ll cease your screeching, Let silence reign upon this floor.” Quoth the flowers, “Nevermore.” “There must be a way to free you, leave this place, I guarantee you, Get thee out of the wallpaper, released from prison of décor,” But no matter try as I might, all the day into the twilight, In the end of efforts finite, the flowers still screamed, and I swore, “Get your howls from out my ears, and get your forms from my décor!” Quoth the flowers, “Nevermore.” Now the trapped souls, I’m not doubting, still are shouting, still are shouting, Snared souls writhing in the paper just outside my chamber door. All the mouths are moaning, screaming, like a demon’s nightmare dreaming, Writhing, paper fully teaming with the shadows cast of yore, And these souls, these ghastly shadows, will stay ensnared in the décor, Will be released - nevermore.