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Poem about literature

Sagot :

Hello, my charming neighbor;  

How you grace me with your wit.

You’ve really got the spirit  

And I like your costume’s fit.

What’s that? No, I’ve had plenty.  

What I need is some advice;

I think I’ve found a bargain,  

If I’ve not misjudged the price.

Just yesterday I purchased  

Something special from abroad,

But have a vague suspicion  

I’ve been victimized by fraud.

I bought the thing on impulse  

Without any guarantees.

It’s hidden in my cellar  

And awaits your expertise.

A connoisseur you are, sir,  

Of music, art and wine,

And anyone would value  

Your opinion more than mine.

You have my admiration.  

That, we know, sir, is no crime.

I ask but your opinion,  

And of course, a little time.

 

Your trust bestows great honor.  

You’re a man of noble birth.

We both shall be rewarded,  

Each according to his worth.

Hold tightly to the handrail;  

It’s a narrow flight of stairs.

Your passing would grieve many.  

As for me? Well, no one cares.

Your interest excites me,  

But I do not like that cough.

Your health is more important;  

Should we call this venture off?

All right then. Not much further.  

We’ll see how the journey ends.

This dampness is an insult  

Only fine wine can avenge.

 

You know my family's motto.  

We’re a proud and ancient house;

Our coat of arms emblazoned  

With the doctrine we espouse.

And yes, I am a member  

Of the sacred brotherhood;

As very soon I’ll prove it,  

For you know my word is good.

It’s fitting that I’ve kept it  

With my ancestors’ remains;

Locked deep within the fastness  

Of these ancient iron chains.

Well there, then, that was easy.  

Just relax. I’ll do the rest;

Though while I deem it justice,  

You’d prefer it were a jest.

You see, I am a mason,  

And a brother after all.

I work in brick and mortar,  

Course on course, to build a wall.

The wildness of your laughter  

Leaves me deeply satisfied.

The blackness of your silence  

Makes the last brick hard to slide.

But goodbye, Fortunato,  

I’m returning to the fair

To drink Amontillado  

Till they pour me from my chair.

You’ll still be here tomorrow.  

I’ll be upstairs breathing free.

Don’t hang your head in sorrow;  

You’ve lost better friends than me.

Yes so long, Fortunato.  

I’ve got other things to do.

I’ll speak your name in mourning  

And console your family, too.

I hope you’re taking notice  

Of a sound you’ve never heard;

The first time since I’ve known you  

That I’ve had the final word.