A parody of Edgar Allen Poe's "The Raven", on the subject of Benjamin Raspail. No disrespect is intended for the genius work of Mr. Poe and I apologize for butchering his poem! The original poem may be found at: http://lucien.blight.com/~sparkle/poems/raven.html

Oh, and I prefer "flutist" not "flautist" - both terms are used by Thomas Harris. ********************

THE FLUTIST

Once upon a concerto dreary, while I played, rude and weary,
Upon my flute a sound reminiscent of a snore,
That night at home, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of someone gently rapping, rapping at my apartment door.
"Tis Dr. Lecter," I muttered, "tapping at my apartment door;

Only him, and nothing more."

Ah, distinctly I remember, the orchestra board's most charming member,
my first appointment with him at four.
Eagerly I told my sorrow; he told me to come back tomorrow,
My flute he asked to borrow, so that I shall play no more,
Thanks to the doctor with the name of Lecter,

I shall play my flute no more.

And his silken voice so smooth and certain, behind the velvet curtain,
Thrilled me - filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
Soon my heart he shall stop from beating, as I lay repeating,
as the rapping continued at my door,
"Tis Dr. Lecter," I muttered, "tapping at my apartment door;

Only him, and nothing more."

My trust in him soon grew stronger; I hesitated no longer,
"Doctor," said I, "truly your forgiveness I implore;
I know my flute, I play it badly, so I admit to you sadly,
I'm glad you came tapping, tapping at my door,
My flute I will play no more." And I opened wide the door;

Dr. Lecter there, then nothing more.

Deep into maroon eyes peering, long I stood there, fearing,
telling him tales I've never told before;

Then the silence soon was broken, when the doctor had spoken,
And the only words spoken were the whispered words, "No More!"
he whispered, "Benjamin, please play your flute no more!"

Merely this, and nothing more.

I spoke of Klaus as I stuttered, as the Doctor rolled his eyes and shuddered,
The head in the glass jar behind my refrigerator door.
Not the least comment made he; still and silent stayed he;
he just took my arm and showed me out the door.
Had I known the doctor had done worse before,

Of Klaus, I would have said nothing more.

Then Dr. Lecter beguiling, spoke to me all the while smiling,
"Benjamin, you can keep Klaus's head no more,
You must hide him somewhere far, perhaps hide him in your car"

Ghastly, grim, I had to tell him more,
"Doctor, I must tell you what I haven't told before,

Then I shall speak of Klaus no more."

"Regarding Klaus, it wasn't I, who caused the poor Swede to die;"
The Doctor looked at me like I was no longer a bore;
"The one who killed him, it was Jame; yes, that is his real name,
He promised not to do the bad thing anymore"
Then I hurried out the doctor's door;

I would see him only one time more.

I didn't want Klaus to be lonely, even if he was all head only,
In a jar, in a car behind my storage room door.
So Valentines I would show him; in the storage dark and dim;
In my Packard, where no one has sat before;
In the backseat, keeping closed the door;

After all, what are lovers for?

I saw Dr. Lecter one last time, the next life he took would be mine,
his fiery eyes now burned into my very core;
"I am tired of your whining, while I watch you on my couch reclining,
I could pierce your heart and serve your sweetbreads to the Board;

And I won't have to listen to your gluey flute once more"

I then knew I would play my flute no more.

And Dr. Lecter, ever fitting, still is sitting, still is sitting,
In his cell on a chair bolted to the floor;
And his eyes have all the seeming, of a demon who is dreaming.
As the light throws shadow through the bars on the door,

And Dr. Lecter thinks, in his cell in Baltimore,

"Flutes the flutist, nevermore!"

FIN