Slightly revamped, again with apologies to Mr. Poe, here's my entry:
Once upon a midnight dreary, while she pondered eyes all bleary,
Over knives that I had considered scarcely not an hour before.
Poring through the cat'log's mapping, ever conscious of a rapping,
Of her shod foot firmly tapping, tapping on the kitchen floor.
"Not THIS one," she pointed, foot tapping on the kitchen floor.
"Not this one and not one more!"
Ah, distinctly I remember, my eyes alit like glowing ember,
When each happy fam'ly member brought birthday gifts inside our door.
Eagerly, I tore them open - curious and ever hoping
For the C.U.D.A., no more to covet - covet as I had before!
For that CQB1 fixed blade that I never had before!
In Bead-blast ATS-3-4!
And the power of that feeling, sure to send my mind a-reeling,
Thrilled me - filled me with visions chilling to my very core.
So that now to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating,
"Now surely I can have that knife that I did not buy before.
The Camillus C.U.D.A. that I did not buy before.
But have always wanted, and could not ignore."
Now at last the urge was stronger, growing large from waiting longer,
"Dear," said I, "uh, Sweetheart, truly your forgiveness I implore;
But the fact is I was crazy, you know that I'm much too lazy
And my memory is hazy, hazy like those times before,
"Certainly I had not committed to quit this hobby before,
Certainly," of this I swore.
Deep into her dark eyes peering, long I sat there wondering, fearing,
Headed for a place where no man returns without a chore.
But her glare remained unbroken, and there she stood, solid, oaken,
I heard the words before she'd spoken, "Not this one and nothing more."
Part of this I repeated, and murmured back the words "Nothing more?"
Yes, this I'd heard in times before.
Feverishly, my mind churning (proper responses I'm still learning)
If I add to my collection, she would show me the door.
For my knives sat in corners dusty, some ATS, still others rusty,
Soon I'd stammer or I'd sweat, sweat out of every pore.
She'd see my scheme from the sweat coming out of every pore.
If this occurs, I get none more.
"Hon...," I started, ever hoping, for careful words, I'd been groping
As if searching for a diamond in a thousand tons of ore.
I felt as if I had been stranded, or as common crook been branded,
By feable, myriad excuses, excuses ever thinner wore.
Hopelessly, I thought excuses that ever thinner wore.
Only these, and thought none more.
There she stood, eyes beguiled, sparkling, and then she smiled.
A look reserved for special times, for at my soul it tore.
Cautious treading here demanded, as I felt soon to be remanded -
I feared I knew her likely plan to be constraining her amour.
There was no torture more direct than constraining her amour.
Horrific torture, none worse more.
Cursed greed of knife collection! Must it deprive me of affection?
These demons raced about my head like ghosts from days of yore.
The Camillus C.U.D.A. is a beauty, surely fit for any duty,
And like a pirate's love of booty, my yearning I could not ignore.
Yet save my hobby (and my marriage) which I could not ignore.
Not sleep on the couch a month or more.
With racked brain, strained unnerving, to demonstrate or show deserving
And receive a gift that my spouse may very well abhor!
For, see I feel that if my wife, were to have herself this very knife
It may just well change her life, or at least opinions that she bore.
She may see error, see the scorn for the opinions that she bore.
And firm tapping of her foot, I'd hear nevermore.
So, Mr. Gibbs, now I plead - that my affliction you will feed.
Despite the fact my wife may freak and lock her "lovin' coeur."
Or it may be her great pleasure, to possess a tanto treasure
A prize I'd very dearly measure, like my wife (who I adore.)
So please, Camillus (a comp'ny likewise who I adore)
Send the C.U.D.A. to our door?
