Twas the night before Poemdemonium, and all through The Black Box,
Not a person was sitting, not even with socks.
The decor was stacked by the door, with care
In hopes that the poets would all be there.
The poets, the story-tellers, the songwriters alike
All tucked in their skinny jeans,
With visions of words coming in streams,
And Samantha and Nathan, all chillaxed in the bath
Just settled their brains, before tomorrow’s wrath.
When out on Hill street, arose such a clatter
I sprang from the bath, to see what was the matter
Away to the window, I flew like a flash
Threw open the doors and tripped over the trash.
The sunset on the little cobbled street,
Gave a nice golden glow to all who took a seat,
When what, to my astounded eyes should appear,
A poet, a story-teller and a musician, so near!
With a queue forming, so lively and quick,
I knew there must be someone named Nick,
More rapid than eagles, the wordsmiths they came,
All looking for their 8 minutes of literary fame!
So enough of this poem, I’ve tried to rewrite from song,
It’s not Christmas just yet, so it doesn’t belong
But the point remains, Poemdemonium is tomorrow
So please come to the show or you’ll have lots of sorrow!
