Nov. 6, 2012

Case,

I voted this morning in our country's latest presidential election. It's likely the wrong guy will win, but that hardly matters in the short term.

In theory, one party puts its faith in the individual, while the other party puts its faith in institutions (the government). As currently constituted, I would never vote for the latter, and the former has been a disappointment in recent years.

In reality, neither party serves the people. Instead, they both serve distinct and powerful interests. Their carefully constructed messages are a mix of insincere concern and manufactured outrage.

The political system has plenty of problems, but despite its flaws, our democracy is resilient. It's resilient because so many of its participants are.

I don't know what the  world will look like when you are of voting age and beyond. It might be a wonderful place compared with today. Or it might be a mess. But whatever the world is that you're living in, don't back down from its challenges, be honest — with yourself and those around you — work hard and do your best to take care of yourself and your loved ones.

Don't just vote your conscience ... live it.

Love,
Dad

P.S. It's been way too long since we talked. I could say that adults get busy, but I should never be too busy that I can't take time to share my thoughts with you. And no matter who the president is when I wake up tomorrow, I will be happy — happy knowing that only a few steps and a bedroom door separate me from your outstretched arms and signature smile. Tomorrow, I will once again be reminded of what really matters. The big picture will always be important, but it's the little things that really count.

Help yourself

Case,

You can count on your family, and you can count on yourself, and you can count on one hand how often you can count on anyone or anything else.

We all need help on occasion to keep our lives moving forward, but do your best to live your life in such a way that you'll value and appreciate that help. Don't take it for granted. And never get used to it.

Work hard, be responsible and don't expect to simply be given everything you want.

Love,
Dad

Wise old man

Case,

You're gonna have to fight,
but draw, lose or win,
like a wise man once told me:
You must never give in

Love,
Dad

RIP, (Grandpa)

Case,

Today is bittersweet. It's my first Father's Day as a father. I am so happy and proud that I am your dad and you are my son. But I'm also sad. It's my first Father's Day without my dad, your Grandpa Pallister. I may be starting to sound redundant, but it cannot be said enough: Grandpa was a great man. He died exactly a week ago, and today, more than ever before, when I look at you I am reminded how much you mean to me and how much I miss my dad (I used to wonder how you could "smile-cry." Now I know.) Grandpa was laid to rest four days ago. You were there, eating cheese puffs and being "Magooish" as always. You won't remember the day, but I will never forget to remind you about the unique life of William Mark Pallister Sr. With Grandpa in mind, I will spend the rest of my days doing my best to raise you with the values he instilled in me, just as I did my best to eulogize him:


Bear with me here. On the long and distinguished list of things I obsessively worry about (slash) fear, public speaking is right near the top. But among the many lessons to be learned from the life of William Mark Pallister Sr., none is more fundamentally important than this: Life is about sucking it up and getting it done. Dad was a man of many things, but never excuses. So in his honor, here I go.

I'm sure I'm not alone in that my days have been filled with thoughts of Dad for a couple of months now. On my drives to and from work (OK, that one doesn't apply to Bill). Lying in bed late at night unable to fall sleep (OK, that one doesn't apply to Kenny). Lying in bed late in the morning waiting to get up (OK, that one doesn't apply to Mark). Watching a random baseball game (OK, that one doesn't apply to Jack). Or just generally relaxing on a day off (OK, that one doesn't apply to Patti).

Anyway, the point is, for those closest to him, we were fully cognizant of the man's presence and fully aware of the power of his influence on everyday life as his was nearing its end. The thing is, that cognizance, that awareness wasn't THAT different. Again, I don't think I'm alone in saying that I've spent decades (not nearly as many as my much older siblings, but decades nonetheless) being constantly reminded as I make my way through life just how much Dad has shaped the person I've become. I'm not just proud to be my father's son, I'm thankful. Every day.

Speaking for myself now, despite plenty of mistakes and all the holes I've dug, I somehow managed to keep moving forward. I've had two people in the last five years ask me how I've been able to get so many different newspaper jobs without having a degree (I have it now a mere 22 years after I started my course work. Dad may have raised a procrastinator, but not a quitter.) Well, I'll tell you why I got all those jobs. Because a man who took on life at every turn and never backed down long ago taught me the value of hard work and sacrifice (we'll credit Ma with my occasionally cited intelligence). Those values have time and again overcome my impetuousness, stubbornness and plain old stupidity.

One more time I will attempt to speak for others, although I think the following statement will be met with general agreement: We are a family of survivors for a couple of reasons, not the least of which is that no matter how many detours we decide to take, we always return to following the path of a great man.

How great? Well, as I was trying to come up with the perfect anecdote to put Dad's life into context (and there is no shortage), I realized he was the same age when I was born as I am now. As a 40-year-old, I can, if I so choose in those rare moments when I'm not wondering about utility bills and cheeseburgers (sound familiar?) boast of becoming a husband and father in the last 17 months. But Dad in January 1972? He was 22 years into being a husband and 21 years into being a father. Think about that. They really DON'T make 'em like that anymore. That's an amazing legacy for any man, and I haven't even mentioned that by that time, he was more than 15 years into a storied Chicago Fire Department career. He already had been promoted to lieutenant (he would later be promoted to captain) and had been part of the department's first bomb squad. The man volunteered to work with bombs, for God's sake. I don't want to brag (OK, maybe just a little), but it's no hyperbole to say my dad was a living legend before I was even alive.

Legend is often synonymous with hero, and that's certainly the case with Dad. Most people assume I'm talking about his exploits as a fireman. After all, this was a man who spent close to 30 years willingly walking through the doors of burning buildings. No question those were heroic actions. But what really made Dad a hero was walking through the front door. Day after day. Year after year. Decade after decade. On the fire department, you're not much good if you can't be counted on to be there when you're needed by those around you. Same goes for fatherhood. Dad was a great fireman; he was a better father.

As the youngest in the family, I had a much different relationship with Dad. He was forced to retire when I was 11. It wasn't easy for a man like him to adjust to a life devoid of challenge, and I didn't help at all. In fact, when I think about how much of an asshole I was back then and how my attitude made a difficult transition that much harder, I want to kick my own ass. (I have to stop for a minute and remember that Dad hated it when I swore or tried to talk tough when I was a teenager. I thought it made me sound cool. But Dad always reminded me how foolish I was. I can hear him right now, saying, "Swearing is the verbal crutch of a mental cripple.") Sorry, Dad.

Long before I realized just how great Dad was, we bonded over baseball. He never did teach me to hit, but he taught me many other things. Particularly useful was his mantra, "Stay in front of the ball." I did, even if it meant a bloody lip, a chipped tooth or a nasty bump on my head. I didn't know it then, but Dad wasn't teaching me how to catch a ground ball; he was teaching me not to back down, teaching me the secret to life.

Dad's legacy is not in any of the words I've written for this eulogy. His legacy is right there in the front row. A family of individuals who, like their father, work hard, sacrifice and take on life and its responsibilities without backing down. And as much as I miss Dad and wish I had another 40 years with him, the hardest part of him no longer being here is that he and my 10-month-old son, Case, will not get to share their lives together. It breaks my heart. But if you'll allow me to address the man of honor, I just want to say, "Dad, I promise to teach Case the invaluable lessons you taught us so that he can grow up to proudly carry on your name and your legacy. I promise he will learn all about the greatest man we will ever know."

 Love,
Dad

Followers and phonies

Case,

Still thinking about yesterday's advice (http://www.casestudy718.blogspot.com/2012/05/wisdom-of-isbell.html), I wanted to add a few more of my thoughts on being your own man. I wrote this back near the end of my single, aggressively defiant days, and while I've changed a lot since then, my thoughts on phonies have not:

The line forms to the left

Followers and phonies
get in line and read the sign
All you bullshit artists
take your place; just pick a face
The line forms to the left
for your least resistant path
Lemmings in the front,
sheep in the baaaack

When you get up in the morning, 
how does your persona work?
Do you switch it on and off?
Do you pick it like a shirt?
When you look into the mirror,
and you pause for great effect, 
who is it you're hoping,
you're hoping to reflect?

Life is so much simpler
when you're copying off others
It's hard to be original,
not so hard to play a cover
Let others lay the groundwork
as you gripe and bitch and moan
Then co-opt a good idea
and parade it as your own

Followers and phonies
get in line and read the sign
All you bullshit artists
take your place; just pick a face
The line forms to the left
for your least resistant path
Lemmings in the front,
sheep in the baaaack

I'm a narcissistic loather
Most would say I'm pretty fucked
But for all my faults I'm real
I'm not making myself up
Not a one of us is perfect
in our houses made of glass
But I'll take the ones who throw stones 
over those who would kiss ass

Followers and phonies,
the line forms to the left
Lemmings in the front,
sheep in the baaaack


Love,
Dad

The wisdom of Isbell

Case,

I went to a Jason Isbell matinee concert the other day while you accompanied your mom to the grocery store. I can tell you as I type this that Isbell is going to be on the short list of artists and bands (along with Thin Lizzy, the Drive-by Truckers -- which begat Mr. Isbell  -- Jack White, Gov't Mule, Joe Bonamassa and a couple others I'm likely overlooking or have yet to discover) that you will not be able to completely escape until you get a driver's license, as one of the cool things about being a parent is that I control the stereo. It also helps that I have the greatest musical taste of anyone in the world. Actually, while at some point you may consider the music I listen to "for old people" and mock me in solitude while trying to look cool in front of a mirror as you sing along to a song in an strangely memorable moment that will embarrass you any time you think about it for the rest of your life (No, I'm not speaking from experience, why do you ask? But if you find yourself in such a situation, it's best to lock the door.), you're a Pallister, which means as long as you have ears, you'll likely gravitate toward the good stuff in due time. Even the best aficionados have their regrettable moments, such as the Scritti Politti phase of 1984 and that ill-advised purchase of a Dead-Eye Dick cassette in the early '90s (I probably shouldn't have typed that).

Regardless of your personal journey toward musical enlightenment, I have a feeling, given my obsession with words and their many uses (a gift I cannot thank your Grandma Pallister for enough), that you will be similarly interested in lyrics. Isbell is a great lyricist -- a down-to-Earth musician whose intelligence and blue-collar philosophy make him a master songwriter. This is never more apparent than in his signature song, "Outfit," which he played a great acoustic version of at the aforementioned concert.

I gravitated toward the song, which is about a father's advice to his son, years ago. But now when I hear it, I think not only of my father, your Grandpa Pallister, but you, too. Much of the wisdom in "Outfit" is exactly the type of stuff your Grandpa stood for and made sure I understood at an early age: Don't call what you're wearin' an outfit/Don't ever say your car is broke/Don't sing with a fake British accent/Don't act like your family's a joke.

The song only lasts justs over four minutes, but it's worth a thousand years of wisdom, most notably the idea that you must be true to yourself. There are no great epiphanies in life, just a series of lessons that you must do your best to divine and learn from. And the greatest lesson in "Outfit" comes from the following verse: So don't let 'em take who you are, boy/and don't try to be who you ain't.

To put those 17 words in greater context: Be your own man, forge your own identity and never, ever be a phony. It's much easier in life to follow than to lead, and, if you ask me, it's often easier to lead than to walk your own path. That doesn't necessarily entail being a loner, but sometimes you have to believe in yourself when the world around you does not. The world is not set up for people who aren't afraid to be themselves. On a related note, don't purposely try to be different. Nothing is more common than "individuals" acting unique. Being your own man is not easy. It comes with many pitfalls. But when you arrive at the point of confidence which I mentioned a couple posts back ('Be proud') it'll be one of the more satisfying moments of your life.

Always remember, son, there is only one Case Austin Pallister, so don't let 'em take who you are, boy, and don't try to be who you ain't.

Love,
Dad

I report, you decide

Case,

This past Friday, your mom and I went to our first sporting event since your arrival. It was the Nationals vs. the Orioles.

In the course of our night out, I somehow managed, despite them literally being attached to me, to lose my keys on the Metro ride to the ballpark. And, on the way back, I was denied my wish that the drunken group of twentysomethings sitting behind us would either spontaneously combust or be struck as mute as they were dumb. All things considered, though, it was a good time. And it got me thinking about where your sports allegiances will lie.

Perhaps, you won't be a sports fan and will gravitate to other interests. OK, who are we kidding. You have two parents who are rabid sports fans. I'm not sure how much choice you'll have in the matter. Anyway, you can certainly choose whom you want to root for.

You'll know long before you are able to read this that I LOVE the Bears and I have a lesser, but still significant fondness for the White Sox. You'll also probably have to hear your mom talk all about the Broncos. Now you can root for the Broncos if you wish. I won't pressure you into screaming at the same 22 or so people for three hours each Sunday as I do. Of course, while it's never been proven that John Elway kills puppies, he's never denied it. So keep that in mind.

OK, back to baseball. Your mom doesn't have much of an attachment to any team, although she enjoys rooting for the Nats, especially Stephen Strasburg and Bryce Harper (let's hope, for the sake of the game, that when you read that sentence, you'll think, "Cool, those guys are awesome!"). If we stick around our current neck of the woods for a while, you'll be exposed to lots of Nats and almost as much Orioles, who play right up the road. Maybe you'll adopt one of them as your favorite team. Maybe you'll follow your dad and root for the only Chicago baseball team that has won a World Series since automobiles became popular (I'm not going out on much of a limb to assume that will still be true when you find this page).

Or, you may become a Cubs fan. There is precedent. Many, many Pallisters root mindlessly for them. Of course, the smart ones among us -- myself and your uncles Mark and Kenny -- know better. But, again, no pressure. If you decide to root for a bunch of losers who are partially to blame for global warming and completely responsible for the disappearance of Jimmy Hoffa (Google it!), I'll still love you. I'll mock you and taunt you from time to time, but I'll still love you. :)

In all seriousness, I hope you do root for a bunch of different teams, just so I can be exposed to the love of the game through your eyes. I can't think of many things that would be cooler for this lifelong sports fan. Aside from proof that John Elway doesn't kill puppies. Your mom doesn't need to live with that uncertainty.

Love,
Dad

I wonder

 Case,

I wonder what you'll be someday
and what's the first word that you'll say
I wonder when you'll start to walk
and how we'll laugh in times we talk

I wonder where you'll gravitate
and what fun things will fill your plate
Those things you'll find that you will need
on which a hungry head can feed

I wonder if you'll play with words
or mimic many songs you've heard
I wonder if you'll lose yourself
in books that are your mother's wealth

I wonder how you'll speak your mind
with passion for the cause you find
I wonder when you'll take the stand
that starts the path from boy to man

I wonder of the days unknown
and memories to come
The reasons I'm alive today
I count 'em one by one
Forty years have brought me here
my work has just begun

I wonder as I sit inside the room in which you sleep
I wonder of the dreams you'll have and promises to keep
I wonder as I stare outside beyond our white front door
If I do my job, son, that world outside is yours

Love,
Dad

Be proud

Case,


Becoming a man is a long, sometimes difficult process. You'll find that it's rarely easy, and you'll spend your share of time wondering why you are the way you are (apologies in advance for my particular influence in such introspection). But, at some point, you will wake up and look in the mirror, and looking back will be a fully formed man -- of strong opinions and serious convictions -- who, despite his all-too-human faults, believes in himself. When that day comes, what you see won't be perfect, and it won't be without blame. But it will be you. In all your glory. When you finally see yourself, son, be proud.


Don't try to fend off your instincts and senses
No need to mend those artificial fences
Stand up real straight and walk tall
If they don't like it
Well, they don't matter much at all

Don't pretend to be the person you are not
Do not defend the quirks that you have got
Be your own man and have your say
If they don't like it
Well, you don't need 'em anyway

Plenty of people in this world
who will tell you how to act
what to do and what to say
even dress as a matter of fact
Sometimes it seems you'll never win
But remember you're the only one
who has to be comfortable in your skin

You don't care when they're staring
but you never cared to dance
You don't waste time on phonies,
never give them half a chance
You're measured in your dealings
but you'll sing a song out loud
You're happy in your element
Of all these things be proud

Plenty of people in this world 
who will want to change your ways
where to walk and when to talk
even how you choose to spend your days
Sometimes it feels like fighting no more
But remember the face in the mirror
is the only one you answer for

You don't believe in fiction
and you play it by the book
You're not about to suffer fools
who don't deserve a second look
You're the center of attention
but yet you hide in crowds
You're finding peace in solitude
Of all these things be proud

You're impatient in the moment
but in no hurry to commit
You have no use for arrogants,
the pompous and half-wits
You're open to the future
but maybe not as you once vowed
You're not afraid to be yourself
Of all these things be proud

Don't try to fend off your instincts and senses
No need to mend those artificial fences
Stand up real straight and walk tall
If they don't like it
Well, they don't matter much at all

Don't pretend to be the person you are not
Do not defend the quirks that you have got
Be your own man and have your say
If they don't like it
Well, you don't need 'em anyway

Plenty of people in this world
who assume they know it all
why you drink and how you think
even those whose names you care to call
Sometimes you ask why you wear these scars
But when it's all said and done
ain't nothin' wrong with who you are


Love,
Dad

Exhaust fumes, Thin Lizzy instead

Case,

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6HmHKwYRP9k&feature=related

Love,
Dad

A time to cry

Case,

It's been a while, Magoo. I was focusing on finishing that albatross of a World Lit class the last couple months, so I haven't been hanging around this corner of cyberspace. Actually, the class turned out to be pretty cool. Hopefully you'll discover the joy of classic authors like Voltaire, Tolstoy, Conrad, Joyce, Kafka, Faulkner, etc. long before your procrastinating Dad. I'd also like to request that you do not take 22 years to finish college (don't tell your Mom I just admitted that, OK?).

Anyway, I had a long drive to work this afternoon, and the '80s mix I made for my Ipod didn't quite hold my attention on the open road for three hours. So, typically, I started to think. I thought mostly about you and your Grandpa Pallister. We're going to see him next weekend. He's in a nursing home, trying to regain use of his legs. The doctors told us that is unlikely, but your Grandpa Pallister has never been one to shy away from a challenge. It doesn't matter that he's 81 years old, his life nearing its end. Thinking about what a struggle it must be for him daily, I'm reminded of the three words he used to repeat to me as a boy when things weren't going smoothly: Never give in. He's following that advice to the very end. You have to respect a man for that.

I am prone to thinking ahead. Often too far ahead. But in this situation, I can't ignore what the future may hold. I've been incredibly lucky to have lived 40 years without anyone close to me dying. But after rushing to Chicago a few weeks ago to spend time with your Grandpa in the hospital, I can't stop thinking about what life will be like without him, and I keep returning to this image of myself, standing in front of a crowded church, trying to explain what your Grandpa has meant to me. I have no idea if I will be asked to deliver any sort of eulogy on such an occasion, but I've largely written it all in my head countless times. And there's one part that I cannot get past without getting emotional. I want to tell the crowd that as sad as it is to no longer have my father around, what truly breaks my heart is that neither you nor he will know the joy of each other. I imagine looking at you in that moment and breaking down, thinking of a future in which the greatest man I've ever known is not part of your life.

If that comes to pass, I will almost certainly try and stop it, but, ultimately, I hope to embrace it. There are countless moments of happiness in our lives (many we never realize before they're lost to the past), but life, no matter how great we make it, presents us with times of sorrow. In those times, it's all right to let go. You can spend your whole life trying to ignore your emotions. But it's not healthy, and it's not fair to those for whom your heart wants to cry. I will do my best to teach you how to be tough, how to be strong, because you will need to be. I will do my best to teach you to be the kind of man William Mark Pallister has been for more than eight decades. And if I tear up occasionally while telling you about Grandpa and the lessons he taught me, don't hold it against your father. Sometimes, it's OK to cry. And if anyone ever tells you otherwise, you point them out and I'll kick their ass. :)

Love,
Dad

A lucky fool

Case,

Tomorrow is Valentine's Day, which means finally I can stop reminding myself to buy a card for your mom. Actually, I haven't been putting off buying the card for the usual reasons -- I always remember important things at the worst possible time (I tend to be reminded of what I need to do between the hours of 11 p.m. and 2 a.m. when doing them is impossible) and I have made a frustrating sport of procrastination (I apparently don't have enough deadline pressure at work). No, I've been putting this off because I wanted to write something more than "I love you, baby" on the card. I've written thousands upon thousands of words over the last six years. Writing saved my life. But your mom showed me why it was worth saving. I feel bad that I've been so busy that I haven't come up with another poem or song to write on that card (sorry, baby; I really do love you -- more than ever). So, in lieu of that, I'm going to leave you with a few words I wrote about your mom when I first realized she was the one I wanted to put off buying Valentine's Day cards for (side note: don't ever let anyone tell you you can't end a sentence with a preposition). When you get older, I can show my "work" from the days before your mom came along. It's important to me, and I think much of it will be useful to you. But until then, trust me that what you are about to read is a seismic shift in how one man sees the world.

Four in one

You don't just make me laugh
You don't just make me smile
You make me feel like new again
despite the many miles

You don't just give me hope
You don't just give me praise
You make me feel like I can't wait
to greet the coming days

I've known smart and I've known funny
I've known beautiful and cool
But to know all four in one
I know I'm a lucky fool

You don't just make my day
You don't just make my night
You make me feel that in between
I'm doing something right

You don't just give me hope
You don't just give me praise
You make me feel that I have reached
the end of this long maze

You don't just take the cake
You surely take the time
And unafraid you ventured in
with quick wit and like mind

You see me like a scope
without a hint of haze
The focus of a pretty sight
on which I fix my gaze

I've known smart  and I've known funny
I've known beautiful and cool
But to know all four in one
I know I'm a lucky fool

You don't just make me laugh
You don't just make me smile
You make me feel like new again
despite the many miles

You don't just give me hope
You give me something more
You make me feel like I have found
what I'd stopped looking for


Love,
Dad

Poe, boy

Case,

Been a little busy lately; sorry I haven't stopped by.

Nothing significant is coalescing in this big brain of mine at the moment, but our recent trip to Baltimore and unsuccessful attempt to eat at an Edgar Allen Poe-themed restaurant reminded me of a writing from a few years ago.

I couldn't sleep after a long day of work and I ended up watching an educational video on the (in)famous writer. I've been a fan of Poe since my teens, and I found out early in our relationship that he is your mom's favorite writer. I had no idea when I started watching, and it turns out this writing is the first thing that led your mom to think it was worth pursuing an NFL-obsessed, fashion-deficient guy who could turn a rhyme now and then. The show was interesting enough that it got me thinking -- and pacing -- at 3 a.m. After about an hour of milling around my small apartment to keep the creative juices flowing, I looked down at the notebook I had been scribbling intermittently on this is what I had:

(I know this is a bit dark, but so was Poe. To me, his significance lies not in the macabre themes he so often mined, but in his love for the act of writing, which I believe, despite the subject matter, was therapeutic and necessary for a man beset by misfortune, whether by his own hand or simply cruel fate. I'm mot trying to compare myself to Poe (I have much nicer hair at the moment and I would never live in Baltimore), but I understand what it's like to use writing to clear your head (or, as your mom might put it, to get out of my own head). Poe lived a rough life, but it was writing that saved him (for a while) from slipping into the darkness that seemed to surround him. I don't know if writing will be part of your life, but we all have creative endeavors that serve as a catharsis, that allow the record (or CD, or whatever it is you kids listen to these days) to get unstuck once it starts skipping. It's funny that I got off on this tangent because it reminds me that it wasn't so much that I've been busy as that I've been stuck in the same groove (google "what is a vinyl album" and you'll get the reference). Now that I've emptied some more thoughts (many of which I didn't even know I had) onto this page, I feel liberated. I feel good. I feel like I want to write more (and I will later, but I have to leave soon and go to the gym; I don't want to go to the gym). I'm guessing that Poe, given his history, felt the freeing effects of creativity, even if he was writing about the death of his one true love. So whether you gravitate toward writing or painting or cooking or calligraphy or glassblowing or whatever, make time to do the thing(s) that makes you feel good. Even if that thing is writing -- as Edgar and I did -- about what's making you feel bad. Because the bad will always fade, one way or another, while what you create -- whether you're a struggling, snakebit writer who becomes wildly famous after death or a regular guy just trying to leave something special behind for someone -- lives forever.)


Edgar was a genius

Edgar was a genius who died penniless and drunk
Every ship he tried to sail inevitably sunk
Edgar stood on principle but fell more than he should
With all those smarts he couldn't help himself -- and he never would

Edgar went to Washington in hopes of finding work
He showed up stinkin' drunk; it was sabotage not quirk
Edgar met the president when he got a second shot
But he tried to sell him magazines ... I kid you not

The Raven was a masterpiece
The monkey killed them all
The heart would not stop beating
The red death cast a pall
Anabelle lay by the sea
in a lonely sepulcher
Ed's premature burial 
began when he lost her

Edgar was a letters man, a man before his time
He invented the detective who figured out the crime
Edgar could be arrogant, insuff'rable and rude
A professional antagonist, he was never in the mood

Edgar didn't know it on that street in Baltimore
He'd someday get his due, respect, much praise and even more
Edgar had his share of loss in which he was to wallow
But his words live on into this day and many since have followed

The Raven was a masterpiece
The monkey killed them all
The heart would not stop beating
The red death cast a pall
Anabelle lay by the sea
in a lonely sepulcher
Ed's premature burial 
began when he lost her

Edgar loved his mothers and also loved his cousin
He hated all his daddies, lived heartaches by the dozen
Edgar had his issues but had plenty love to give
But everyone he gave it to was destined not to live

Edgar had the Midas touch if Midas were the Reaper
Fate was not a friend; his bride he could not keep her
Edgar never understood what life was all about
His logic turned to madness before the lights went out

The Raven was a masterpiece
The monkey killed them all
The heart would not stop beating
The red death cast a pall
Anabelle lay by the sea
in a lonely sepulcher
Ed's premature burial 
began when he lost her

Edgar was discovered in the outfit of another
He spent most of his years not too far from that damn gutter
Edgar had imagined all our final destinations
He needed for the afterlife to not be his creation

Did his nightmare finally end
when he left this mortal coil?
Did he find the peace he sought
no longer playing life's sad foil?
Did the darkness that had set in
with him six feet under soil
release from his torment,
his trouble and his toil?
Or did death extend its welcome hand
to one who'd been so loyal?


Love,
Dad