With apologies to Edgar Allan Poe.
Once upon a midnight dreary,
While I slumbered, weak and weary,
In a cozy townhouse
In the suburbs of Cleveland,
While I dozed off, nearly snoring,
Suddenly there came a roaring
From the baby monitor
That lay on my nightstand.
“’Tis just the wind,” I murmured then,
“That howls like the damned.”
And quoth the baby: “Waah. Waah. Waah.”
Quietly, so quietly,
My eyes flew open, wildly.
I prayed that my young child, he
Did not need a helping hand.
I did not want to rouse, you see…
(The clock had just struck twelve, you see.)
And still I hoped that I’d receive
The REM sleep I had planned.
“’Tis just a rainstorm,” I demurred.
“There’s no reason to stand.”
And quoth the baby: “Waah. Waah. Waah.”
A wail of cold and bitter strife…
The noise tore through me like a knife.
And then, oh gods, I heard my wife,
Who slumbered close at hand!
She roused and said, “Was that the baby?”
I played dumb, then I said, “Maybe.”
In a desperate ploy to save me
From my wife’s demand.
“’Tis just the wind, my darling—”
I haltingly began…
And quoth the baby: “Waah. Waah. Waah.”
The cry rang through the house once more.
Louder! Louder! LOUDER!,
Till it turned into a deafening roar
That rolled across the land.
My wife said, “John” (her voice so stern),
“I did it last time. It’s your turn.”
Alas! Her words made my poor ears burn
Like a swollen prostate gland.
“But, honey, ’tis the wind!” I cried.
“Please! Don’t you understand?”
And quoth the baby: “Waah. Waah. Waah.”
Louder! Ringing through my head.
Louder! Till my poor ears bled.
My wife screamed, “John, get out of bed!”
Yet still I refused to stand.
(You see, I still had hope back then
The babe might fall asleep again.
And I would not be needed, then,
To lend a helping hand…)
“The noise, ’tis just the rain, my dear—”
I miserably began.
And quoth the baby: “Waah. Waah. Waah.”
“John, get out of bed right now!”
My wife cried with a furrowed brow.
And desperately I made a vow
To take my final stand:
“Curse thee, woman!”
I heard myself yell.
“Your words, they are a wicked spell!
I damn thee, wretch, to the gates of hell,
Where thou shalt—”
And then my wife cried out: “What did you just call me?”
And then I paused, and there was an awkward silence betwixt us both.
And then my wife cried out, once more:
“What did you just call me, John?”
“I’m sorry, Sarah,” I replied quickly.
“You’re sorry? You’re sorry?” replied my darling beloved. “Excuse me, but did you spend nine months of your life carrying this baby? And did you spend fourteen whole hours pushing it out of yourself, only for you to have an ungrateful husband who insults you at twelve in the damn morning, John?”
“I know, honey, I’m sorry… I was just… I was doing an Edgar Allan Poe thing.”
“Call me wretch one more time, and I’ll have you sleeping on the couch until Christmas. Don’t think that I won’t, John. Don’t think that I won’t….”
“I’m sorry,” I replied once more.
“You better be,” replied my darling Sarah as she went back to sleep, scowling.
And quoth the baby: “Waah. Waah. Waah.”
I knew then that it was time to pay the piper.
And so I grabbed a fresh new diaper,
Then I stood and left the room,
To heed my wife’s command.
And as I ventured from that place,
Filled with shame, filled with disgrace,
I felt a drop fall down my face,
And onto my outstretched hand.
’Tis just the rain, I told myself,
As tears down my face ran.
And then I wept, quite silently:
“Waah.”
“Waah.”
“Waah.”