He was a man of sorrow, mostly he felt pain. Look at his life, somethings turned out the same. There's the bar, close to the graveyard, the tombstones tell their stories. He was feared by many, because of his stories, he acted fancy. He kept writing till his hand would cramp, it seemed like at any moment, he would snap. He wandered drunkly around the street, where he would face his horrible defeat. There a velvet bird on the street light, it's gaze could give you fright. It has the eyes of a demon, the velvet bird a cretin. It gazed at the man with nothing, but sorrow. The man might wish the morrow, but the morrow never came for him. The blood stains the memories, stains his stories. The velvet bird smirks at his pain and suffering. The bird squawked, somewhat muttering one word. Though as the man laid, bleeding on the floor. His sorrow shall be lifted.... nevermore