Editor’s Note: This humor poem was inspired by Edgar Allan Poe’s “The Raven.”
Once upon a late October, while I studied starkly sober,
Over many a boring textbook, preparing for some dreaded test.
While I drifted, my eyes blinking, suddenly I smelt a stinking,
As of some unwashed folks slinking, slinking about near my nest.
“‘Tis some visitors,” I ventured, not sure who, but un-distressed.
“Maybe hipsters,” I did guess.
I pulled the window curtains back, peering out into the black.
Outside stood some gothic figures, pierced all over, strangely dressed.
While into the blackness peering, I saw they were crusties — tattooed, leering,
In my direction smugly sneering, uninvited, ten abreast.
“It might be rude, but I must wonder, why you’re here,” I said, this time, distressed.
Said the crust punks, “It’s the Fest!”
Barefoot on my porch they sauntered, by my spurning all undaunted,
Smoking cigarettes and shuffling, apathetic and unimpressed.
Clad in black with ‘hawks and dreads, dirty bandannas on their heads,
Wearing all sorts of punk-rock threads, vests and ripped jackets across their chests, “Leave us be!” I said with vigor, “Can you follow my request,
And find some new place to infest?”
Jeering at my inquisition, taking up the opposition,
Stepping forward as their spokesman, a dreadlocked crusty with a ragged vest.
“Shut your mouth and stop your whining, no amount of crabby pining,
Will prevent us from reclining on your porch, as unwanted guests.
The town is ours for our own purpose!
There’s no need to be depressed:
Join us!
Come enjoy the Fest!”
By the thousands all converging, into Gainesville, proudly surging,
Their look, their noise, their unwashed smell, none of which can be suppressed.
Taking space at my favorite bar, Cracking cans of PBR,
Our town is soiled, used and marred, as though that was a crusty’s quest.
Love or hate them, they’re here this weekend, tolerable at best.
Brace yourselves, ‘cause it’s the Fest.
