In the library, Edgar’s lover, Lenore,
Serviced three dozen men on the floor
Like an assembly line
She’d do six at a time
To which, quoth the raven, “What a whore.”
All the residents of Baltimore knew
Of the droves she’d do in her queue;
So, it wasn’t a shock,
When she could no longer walk
And was rendered unable to chew.
Her exploits shook poor Edgar to the core,
So his anger into words he did pour;
Like at his cask story’s end,
Of her motives, he penned,
“For the love of cock, Montressor.”
Edgar Allan Poe’s wife was not named Lenore, nor is there evidence she was a whore. If there is any depraved dick-sucker in this tale, it’s Rufus Wilmot Griswold, who wrote slanderous allegations about Poe after his mysterious death. He claimed first-hand knowledge of Poe’s mental illness, promiscuity and opium addiction. The man was widely considered a vindictive, lying douche, but his work at sullying Poe’s name unfortunately bore poison fruit. The worst falsehoods he propagated have endured, taught as truths to subsequent generations, forever blighting, to some degree, Poe’s reputation for all time.
