When I moved to Syracuse, my first job was in a law firm copy center. Most of my time was spent as a messenger, walking around the city delivering and picking up papers, checks, etc. What does one's brain do with all that alone walking time? Apparently, one perverts the work of Edgar Allen Poe with tales of stolen snacks at work.
The Cravin'
By: Edgar Allen Poe and Thom Higgins
Once upon a midnight dreary
While he pondered weak and weary
Over a faint and furious fax for Peter Swartz
As Dave Clark nodded nearly napping,
When suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping on the fax room door.
“ ‘Tis just Chris, “ he muttered, “tapping at the fax room door, Chris or Thom and nothing more”.
Ah, distinctly I remember
It as a warm September
The Xerox’s greenish lantern left its light glowing o’er.
Eagerly he wished the mallow
Chocolate graham to swallow,
His craving he did follow to the break room’s modern Norge.
For the soft and sweet sensation that Pop-Tart named s’more.
Then he saw, there were no more.
As Dave went back to working
The flavor he was thirsting
It thrilled him—filled him with fantastic hunger never felt before.
But now Dave stood repeating
As the tapping became beating,
“’Tis just Chris entreating entrance at the fax room door.
Chris or Thom and nothing more.”
As the copier’s beat grew stronger
He hesitated then no longer,
“Sir,” he said, “or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
But the fact is I was napping,
And so gently you came rapping,
And so faintly you came tapping, tapping on the fax room door,
That I scarce was sure I heard you.” Here he opened wide the door.
Darkness there and nothing more.
Deep in to that darkness peering
He stood there wondering, fearing
Doubting, dreaming dreams no messenger dared dream before.
But the silence was unbroken
And the stillness gave no token
And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, “s’more?”
This was whispered and an echo murmured back the word “s’more!”
Merely this and nothing more.
Then in from the darkness strutting
As the door Clark was shutting
Stepped the tall Dave Nason, with hair of sixties lore.
Not the least obeisance made he.
Not a minute stopped or stayed he.
But with mein of Lord or Lady, perched beside the fax room door.
Perched and sat upon a pack of post-its beside the fax room door.
Perched and sat and nothing more.
But that Nason sitting lonely,
On the Post-it box spoke only
Just in one word as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.
The silence had been broken,
As these words he had spoken,
The shocking words came forth from this computer commodore:
There he said, “Tasty s’more.”
Then the air grew denser,
Perfumed as if some censor.
All around him was the scent of what was once a s’more.
Nason sat there smiling,
A smile that was beguiling
And on his jacket lining, the evidence he wore.
On his jacket lining was the smudges from a s’more.
Quoth Dave Nason, “Tasty s’more.”
“Prophet!” said Clark, “thing of evil
Prophet still as from the devil,
By that Heaven that bends above us, by that God we both adore!
Tell this soul with sorrow laden,
If, within the distant Aidenn,
It shall fill a savored craving for a sweet and tasty s’more!
Clasp a rare and sticky pastry that Pop-Tarts named s’more!
Quoth Dave Nason, “Tasty s’more.”
“Be that word our sign of parting,
I.S. fiend, “ he shrieked, up starting –
“Get thee back into the basement you pastry omnivore!
Leave no frosting as a token
Of the lie thy soul has spoken!
Leave my hunger here unbroken,
Quit this box beside my door!
Take thy scent of thy Pop-Tart and thy form from off my door!”
Quoth Dave Nason, “Tasty s’more.”
And this Nason, never flitting
Still is sitting, still is sitting,
On the flaxen pack of post-its just beside the fax room door.
And his eyes have all the seeming
Of a demon that is dreaming
And the lamp o’er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor.
And Clark’s hunger from out of that shadow that lies floating on the floor,
Shall be satisfied, never more.
Once upon a midnight dreary
While he pondered weak and weary
Over a faint and furious fax for Peter Swartz
As Dave Clark nodded nearly napping,
When suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping on the fax room door.
“ ‘Tis just Chris, “ he muttered, “tapping at the fax room door, Chris or Thom and nothing more”.
Ah, distinctly I remember
It as a warm September
The Xerox’s greenish lantern left its light glowing o’er.
Eagerly he wished the mallow
Chocolate graham to swallow,
His craving he did follow to the break room’s modern Norge.
For the soft and sweet sensation that Pop-Tart named s’more.
Then he saw, there were no more.
As Dave went back to working
The flavor he was thirsting
It thrilled him—filled him with fantastic hunger never felt before.
But now Dave stood repeating
As the tapping became beating,
“’Tis just Chris entreating entrance at the fax room door.
Chris or Thom and nothing more.”
As the copier’s beat grew stronger
He hesitated then no longer,
“Sir,” he said, “or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
But the fact is I was napping,
And so gently you came rapping,
And so faintly you came tapping, tapping on the fax room door,
That I scarce was sure I heard you.” Here he opened wide the door.
Darkness there and nothing more.
Deep in to that darkness peering
He stood there wondering, fearing
Doubting, dreaming dreams no messenger dared dream before.
But the silence was unbroken
And the stillness gave no token
And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, “s’more?”
This was whispered and an echo murmured back the word “s’more!”
Merely this and nothing more.
Then in from the darkness strutting
As the door Clark was shutting
Stepped the tall Dave Nason, with hair of sixties lore.
Not the least obeisance made he.
Not a minute stopped or stayed he.
But with mein of Lord or Lady, perched beside the fax room door.
Perched and sat upon a pack of post-its beside the fax room door.
Perched and sat and nothing more.
But that Nason sitting lonely,
On the Post-it box spoke only
Just in one word as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.
The silence had been broken,
As these words he had spoken,
The shocking words came forth from this computer commodore:
There he said, “Tasty s’more.”
Then the air grew denser,
Perfumed as if some censor.
All around him was the scent of what was once a s’more.
Nason sat there smiling,
A smile that was beguiling
And on his jacket lining, the evidence he wore.
On his jacket lining was the smudges from a s’more.
Quoth Dave Nason, “Tasty s’more.”
“Prophet!” said Clark, “thing of evil
Prophet still as from the devil,
By that Heaven that bends above us, by that God we both adore!
Tell this soul with sorrow laden,
If, within the distant Aidenn,
It shall fill a savored craving for a sweet and tasty s’more!
Clasp a rare and sticky pastry that Pop-Tarts named s’more!
Quoth Dave Nason, “Tasty s’more.”
“Be that word our sign of parting,
I.S. fiend, “ he shrieked, up starting –
“Get thee back into the basement you pastry omnivore!
Leave no frosting as a token
Of the lie thy soul has spoken!
Leave my hunger here unbroken,
Quit this box beside my door!
Take thy scent of thy Pop-Tart and thy form from off my door!”
Quoth Dave Nason, “Tasty s’more.”
And this Nason, never flitting
Still is sitting, still is sitting,
On the flaxen pack of post-its just beside the fax room door.
And his eyes have all the seeming
Of a demon that is dreaming
And the lamp o’er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor.
And Clark’s hunger from out of that shadow that lies floating on the floor,
Shall be satisfied, never more.
