The Raven 

-By Pat Marstall with help from some dead UVA grad (the only good kind).


Once upon a battlefield dreary, where I cowered, spent and bleary,
Within an Imperial bunker, darkly stained with dust and gore -
As I cowered, nearly shuttering, suddenly there came a sputtering
As some weapon quickly stuttering - firing at my bunker door.
"`Tis some bolter", I murmmered, "firing at my bunker door -
                                               Only this and nothing more."

Ah, distinctly I remember, it was in the bleak December,
And the brightly burning bastions lit the horizion by the score.
Eagerly, on freedom drunker; - vainly had I sought to hunker
In this heavy Imperial bunker - with perhaps a tunnel in the floor -
A safe and empty fortress with perhaps a tiny tunnel in the floor -
                                               Only this and nothing more.

And the mad raving howling of each distant Space Wolf prowling
Thrilled me - filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before.
So that now, to the beating of my heart, I stood entreating
"`Tis some Space Wolf there repeating, firing at my bunker door -
Some common Grey Hunter rapid-firing at my bunker door -
                                               This it is and nothing more."

Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer
"Marine," said I, "or Scout, your attention I implore;
The bunker walls are thick - they are made of tempered brick
And your bolters do not nick the slightest scratch or tiny score -
Not a dimple, dent, depression, dip, scratch or tiny score -
                                               Away now, and fire no more."

Then in the bunker slumping, presently I heard a thumping
A pounding - rattling many times fiercer than before.
And soon I began to screech - the bunker wall grenades did breach;
The very gods I did beseech as the ceiling fell upon the floor -
Through the wounds poured light which danced upon the floor - 
                                               Danced amidst the sounds of war.

Then at once it stopped the violence - I was left alone with silence
Confused, I spied the reason why the shells did drop no more -
For as I began to shutter, then with many a flit and flutter
a psyber-Raven flew through the clutter to perch above the door -
Perched on the two-headed eagle just above the bunker door -
                                               Perched and sat and nothing more.

At this I grew more craven, for the talons of the psyber-Raven
Were all over covered with bright red blood and crimson gore.
"Wretch!" I cried, "Njal hath lent thee - into this fortress has he sent thee
So that remotely may he here be - and this bunker then explore -
Scry out my exact location and this bunker then explore -"
                                               Quoth the Raven, "Eversor"

Then, methought, the air grew darker, the bunker now a little starker
For the uttered word brought terror as I had never felt before.
As for weapons, I knew I had none - no bolter, sword or lasgun;
No arms to stop the war's son fated to break soon through the door -
The blood-mad crazed assassin fated to break soon through the door-
                                               Quoth the Raven, "Eversor"

"Be that word our sign of parting, machine or bird!" I shrieked, upstarting -
"Get thee back into the fire-fight and here spy on me no more!
For as you came unbidden - I would otherwise be here hidden -
Leave my location in this midden - quit that icon above my door!
Take thy shining metal eye, and take thy form from off my door!"
                                                Quoth the Raven, "Eversor"

And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting - still is sitting
On the pallid two-headed eagle just above the bunker door;
His metal eye has all the seeming of a psyker that is scheming,
To have my guts lie steaming in a pile upon the floor;
And now all hope has left me, crouched here upon the floor
                                               I await the Eversor!

------------------------
So what do you think?  Am I a candidate for Poet Laureate of the Imperium? 
Perhaps I should publish my other work, "The Webway Less Taken"?  Maybe I can
convince the WD to add "Pat's Poetry Pagoda" to their list of features, right
after "Mike McVey's Masterclass"?  Mayhap I should shut up?

This is it from me for a while - Friday the 9th, I go under the knife to get
one of those less-vital organs removed (either the gall bladder or the
cerebellum, I forget which), so I will be unable to check my mail for a time. 


I expect each of you to add "Every day I pray that Pat Marstall will survive
his surgery" to your .sig file.

-Pat Marstall


(Note: Pat survived his surgery just fine, with the help of perhaps twenty
different prayers for his well-being:

"Every day I pray that they don't use Pat Marstall as a brain donor"
"Every day I pray that they don't turn Pat Marstall into a servitor"
etc.)