Once upon a court inquiry, while my witness plead sincerely,
Over whether or not he witnessed a murder on a mansion floor,
While I prodded, nearly smacking, suddenly there came a cracking,
As of someone's neck snapping, snapping behind the courtroom door.
"Tis some murderer," I muttered, "whacking behind the courtroom door.
Only this and nothing more."

Ah, we linked the oft dismembered mobsters of a chic September,
Yes, the mob's each dying member spilt their guts upon the floor.
Eagerly I swished espresso on the morn I named the torso,
She who until late fought escrow, clauses, deeds, and more.
A wry and wise defense attorney whose office door had read 'Dior.'
Jobless here for evermore.

And the sulking, sad and witless weeping from each extra witness,
Chilled, fulfilled me, raging 'tween the jury's and the judge's snores.
Yet now to hush my unbelieving mind, standing there conceiving:
"Tis some nameless witless witness bleeding 'hind the courtroom door,
Some late nameless witless witness bleeding 'hind the courtroom door.
This it it, and nothing more."

Lamentably, my legs grew softer, wobbling that I thought of doctors,
"Bailiff," said I, "Such unruly interruptions I deplore,
But the fact is, I was strapping, and so roughly he came smacking,
And so toughly he came whacking, whacking behind the courtroom door,
And sharply you should draw your weapon." - here he threw wide the door -
Hallway there, and nothing more.

Swift unto the jury veering, tender mind within me queering,
Shouting, screaming screams no lawyer ever dared to scream before;
all attendants then awoken, just to hearken bullets broken
through the virgin green and golden tiles of the courthouse floor.
Then I withered, seeing there a flicker of my lost Dior.
A flicker of her and nothing more.

Back unto the jury spurning, judge an inch from court-adjourning,
Soon we heard a thwacking somewhat louder than before.
"Surely," said I, "my last witness met his end beyond all fitness,
business brought him to a stiffness statements sworn shall not restore."
There he was and nothing more.

Lurching, shot, out from the gutter, did the drifter enter, stutter,
"Blood I've lost as if I'd shaven, pooling on this stately floor."
Not the least senescence bayed he; laughter flowed from lord and lady;
Though, with life, a damage paid he, drifting in the courtroom door,
Perched upon a pus-filled callus, swaying in the courtroom door,
Perched and spat and nothing more.

Then the entity, blood still piling, forced me into later dialing
Numbers saved to turn the jury's 'innocent' to a 'guilty' score.
"Though your chest is far from graven, you," I said, "The witness craven!
Lastly, him, whose thoughts are saved for those who grace this golden floor.
Name me they who slayed Dior upon the mob's Bostonian shore."
Quoth the craven, "Nevermore."

Much agog as this unseemly, foul-smelling bum extremely
Understated what agreed-to evidence he'd sworn before.
Still, the good and saintly written book had not been rightly smitten
There beneath his grime-caked digits, O, his filthy, vulgar pores.
Word and verse had just escaped his crusted, cratered pores,
With such a name as "Nevermore."

But, the vagrant, grinning phony, at the swinging door spoke only
That one word as if the truth in that one word he did explore.
No more jury then he buttered, no more tiles then he cluttered,
Til I fiercely more than sputtered, "Other aides have died before,
On this floor he shall perish, like the others did before."
Then the tramp said, "Nevermore."

Throttled by the hollow token of a word so worn out, broken,
"Worthless," said I, "what he sputters signifies a rotten core.
Bought by some amoral bastard, hiding here amidst the plaster,
Followed here and shot with blasters, til his lungs one last lie swore,
Killing justice for the virgin whom her parents named Dior
Of 'Never-nevermore.'"

But the craven fell then, smiling, brownish blood at stomach piling.
Straight we stood in shock, the judge, the jury, crowd and more.
Then I, quite without thinking, paced upon the dying, stinking
Man and spat, all without linking any truth with what he swore,
Seeing grit and grim and ghastly gunk, and lies in all he swore,
Bent on croaking, "Nevermore."

There we stood, all dispossessing freehold of his soul's transgressing
To the bowels of fiery lyes and sulfurs, brimstone, molten ore.
Many left, with most resigning, "Fate must work its arch designing,
Lest we take into its twining"; thoughts as engines homeward bore,
Conscience clean and on to dining-thoughts as engines homeward bore.
Never thinking "Nevermore."

I remained, the truth's last censor, doomed by this old truth-dispenser,
Flung by phantom limbs to wrap my arms around the gaping gore.
Retch. I cried, "Our God has bent me, sent his angels down to rend me,
Praise him, praise him, and repent, the end has come for me, Dior!
Laugh, O, laughter ends, repent, the end has come for me, Dior!"
Quoth the craven, "Nevermore."

"Off it!" said I, "Sing of evil! Profits, swill, and pain medieval!
By the law that rules us blind and by the flag we both adore,
By the one with soul unwanted, by the one who fate has taunted,
Tell this room you saw the murder, tell who stole away Dior!
A wry and wise defense attorney whose office door had read 'Dior.'
Quoth the craven, "Nevermore."

"Be that your word of parting, man or beast," I wailed upstarting,
"Get you back into the street, into the gutter's rotting score,
Bleed no black blood as token of the fact your mouth has spoken,
Leave my sanity unbroken! Leave the space under this door!
Take your reek from out my mind, and take your form from off this floor!"
Quoth the craven, "Nevermore."

And the vision of the craven never quitting, still is sitting
On the minds of those who sat farthest from the courtroom door.
And his memory's all the scheming of a devil who is beaming,
And his memory hides the fact that dying on this courthouse floor
The history of my wife's murder, that died upon this courthouse floor,
Shall be known - nevermore.