A Poe-em of Passion

IT was many and many a year ago,

On an island near the sea,

That a maiden lived whom you mightn’t know

By the name of Cannibalee;

And this maiden she lived with no other thought

Than a passionate fondness for me.

I was a child, and she was a child—

Tho’ her tastes were adult Feejee—

But she loved with a love that was more than love,

My yearning Cannibalee,

With a love that could take me roast or fried

Or raw, as the case might be.

And that is the reason that long ago,

In that island near the sea,

I had to turn the tables and eat

My ardent Cannibalee—

Not really because I was fond of her,

But to check her fondness for me.

But the stars never rise but I think of the size

Of my hot-potted Cannibalee,

And the moon never stares but it brings me nightmares

Of my spare-rib Cannibalee;

And all the night-tide she is restless inside,

Is my still indigestible dinner-belle bride,

In her pallid tomb, which is Me,

In her solemn sepulcher, Me.