I remember all too clearly, 'Twas the night that killed me nearly.
Kneeling with my fingers dancing, down upon my well groomed floor.
As I stitched up my old stocking, suddenly there came a knocking.
I looked up and sat there gawking, gawking at my old wood door.
As I sat I coldly shuddered. Who was at my old wood door?
"Who goes there?" I did implore.
Perhaps my ears were me deceiving, message gone beyond believing.
On that cold November evening, as I looked toward my door.
I was still on my floor kneeling, and my mind was quickly reeling.
Had my ears lost all their feeling-feeling rational no more?
Surely I was going crazy. Silence lingered. Nothing more.
Was there something past my door?
Tension mounted, moments passed, onto my feet I jumped at last.
Then was stillness as I stood there, watching my old wooden door.
My display was looking poor. This was not a way to live.
Thought I, "Something's got to give." Give I did and crossed the floor.
Thoughts of horror quickly increased as I journeyed 'cross the floor.
'Til I finally reached the door.
There I stood all full of courage, had to keep bad thoughts discouraged.
As I reached my hand our for the knob upon my old wood door.
Silence creaked and then I opened my old door and did behold,
Nothing but the winter cold. Cold that swept across my floor.
There was nothing else that waited for me past my well-tread floor.
Quickly did I slam the door.
Back to door, my face flushed white, you can't imagine all the fright,
I had in me that cold dark night. I scarce could stand against my door.
Noises in my head were humming, now I saw the end was coming.
And my mind just kept on numbing. Numbing 'til I felt no more.
Then I heard that noise once more, but this time not from past my door.
Mindset fixed, I crossed the floor.
Now I knew my cause of torture. Evil thoughts soon made departure.
Just a branch against my window. Surely this and nothing more.
Window opened, stomach lurched. There on branch a pigeon perched.
Satisfied with this conclusion, I stepped back; my head was sore.
Then a flutter, and I shuddered, as the bird flew o'er my floor.
Carpet clean it was no more.
Then the bird flew in my den and perched on chair where I had been.
I hoped it wouldn't poop again, but that it did and then some more.
I could not let this persist, so I'd attempt to use my fist.
But soon it had this strike dismissed. Dismissed because it flew before.
Then it found a brand new piece of carpet left to soil my floor.
Spots were growing more and more.
Soon I stopped my futile chasing. Soon it stopped its wretched racing.
Silence as it stood there facing straight at me and pooped some more.
"Bird," I said, "I wish you'd leave me, lest another should perceive me,"
"Running 'round in hopeless circles as you dirty my good floor."
"How long must I tolerate until you pass through my wood door?"
Quothe the pigeon, "Heretofore."
Then I knew I'd met my fate. I pleaded but it was too late.
I knew it'd be a later date before I saw my floor once more.
When I finally went to bed, I wondered what that bird was fed,
And maybe someday it'd be dead, and I could live in peace once more.
Until that day I'd have to spend my time in cleaning up my floor.
This alone and nothing more.