From an e-mail from Tripler, posted with his permission:
I am not a hippie. I must make this exceedingly clear.
But, I did sit down and write this parody to Edgar Allen Poe’s “The Raven” (i.e. ‘Quoth the Raven, nevermore. . .’) after hearing a firsthand story from LT Merritt. It seems his trailermate was vacuuming at some ungodly hour. So, naturally, he smacked the wall a couple of times to shut the guy up. Apparently it worked.
In any case, I figured I would release it today, seeing as how I came close to whooping up on my roommate last night, who thinks it’s a good idea to shower at 0200 (without my soap, this time). But, he did decide to knock on my door and introduce himself at 6:PM last night. I was professional, polite, and rendered all proper military courtesies, but I think my demeanor spoke volumes of my ‘no nonsense’ attitude to roommate antics.
I digress. Here’s my poetry . . .
The Vaccuming Roommate
By [Tripler]
A Sunday night while weak and weary,
my head on pillow, my eyes a-bleary.
What’s that noise that I keep hearing?
'Twas the guy who lives next door:
at 4:AM he’s cleaning his floor.
Sloth I rose, my head sorta spinning.
His Devilish face I imagine grinning.
Stumbling about, the darkness thinning,
until I stumbled into my door;
To this day my head is still sore. . .
Turned and tugged the handle on finding.
That God awful vaccum still a-whining,
my blood was boiling, my anger pining,
I rapped upon the bathroom door.
The vaccum stopped, and nothing more. . .
"Damn you, sir, have you ill timing?
With that noise, no manners binding?
Look at a watch, and you’ll be finding
it’s Goddamn near close to 4!
His reply: “Oh, uh, sorry. . .” and nothing more. . .
"Hound of hell how dare you mock me?
Why, in your face I shall sock thee!
Why from my dreams you should stop me,
with a Hoover in the morn at 4?
His retort: “But I gotta vaccum my floor. . .”
Upon which moment it had struck me:
It was hopeless, I muttered “Aw, f*ck me!”
I stepped forward to correct thee
and bring myself through his bedroom door,
but it was locked, to my abhor. . .
- The S.O.B. had me, and nothing more.-
I beat the door just like Mike Tyson.
A sound of wild stampeding bison.
My temper flaring, I wanted to be fightin’!
Because he wanted to vaccum his floor
in the morning at a quarter to four.
“Are you aware of what the time is,
that some of us are evening narcoleptics?
We try to sleep, but for your antics,
that you pull so early this morn!”
“You must be a Guardsman,” I said with scorn.
And thus I heard the cord slowly coiling,
my blood was soon not as boiling.
To store the vaccum he was toiling.
His closet slammed, and nothing more.
And I could hear it through the door.
So back to bed I went meekly,
and rest I did, however weakly.
But for a Guardsman’s cleaning (which was pretty freaky)
I dreamt of babes on foreign tropical shore
He left the next day, his antics nevermore. . .
Yay! Tripler’s fine! I missed him. Hi to all, yadda yadda.
