Edgar Allan Poe’s ‘The Raven’ As Read/Interpreted by Ron Artest
Last night, yeah, last night I was sitting in my living room next to a fire fueled by the heads of my enemies, stroking ‘Metta World Hunger,’ my beloved hyena.Reading about techniques to maintain the perfect rose garden and shit. When all of a sudden some soon-to-be-dead motherfucker went all a-knocking on my chamber door. And I said ‘Yo it’s just some soon-to-be-dead motherfucker rapping on my chamber door. Only some shit like that and nothing more.’
Ah, distinctly I still wake up from terrible nightmares of last December. As I watched Nash and Pau drag their decrepit corpses all across the floor. Eagerly, I wished to be traded. Vainly, I tried to escape Kobe, and wept for the loss of my beloved mind. For the rare and radiant hoodrat-for-life my mother named Ronald. Metta Word Peace for evermore.
And the images of violently gyrating purple curtains, ghosts of championships never to be won, filled me with fantastic terrors not felt since I murdered an endangered snow leopard with my teeth. So with the still beating of my fist on Metta World Hunger’s face I stood repeating: ‘Tis some soon-to-be-dead motherfucker rapping on my chamber door. Some soon-to-be-dead motherfucker making the final mistake of his life entreating entrance at my chamber door. That it is and nothing more,’
Presently my soul grew passionately angry, and in a tribal scream I learned from Youtube, I yelled, ‘Ben Wallace, the fact is when you first arrived I was napping, and so I was unable to strangle the life out of your body when first you came tapping at my chamber door. And so I was scarce sure I heard you’ – here I kicked down the door – bloodstains on the floor from last Saturday night and nothing more.
Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there pondering the right balance of ginger and nutmeg needed to make the perfect spice cake. Fearing, doubting, acid-tripping harder than any mortal, god, or fairy woodland creature dared to acid trip before. But the silence was unbroken, and there was no Hennessey in the hallway. The only thing there spoken was the whispered word ‘Ronald.’ A sound so familiar, I whispered back, ‘Ronald’ Only this and nothing more.
Back into my dungeon turning, still unsure of what to feed my anaconda for dinner, When soon again I heard the tapping now coming from my windowsill, And I said, ‘Sweet mother of God. Ben Wallace can fly.’ Open, here, I flung the shutter, smashing the window with a baseball bat and ripping off my shirt, When in stepped a giant motherfucking raven, from the time I seen a documentary about them on the Discovery Channel. The Discovery Channel is my shit. No sooner had the bird flown in than he perched on the bust of Michael Jackson hanging above my chamber door. Perched, sat, and stared into my soul with them devil eyes and nothing more.
Then this ebony bird, by the stern countenance it wore, made me giggle, reminding me of when I elbowed James Harden right in his beard-face. And I was like, ‘Raven, what the fuck is yo name?’ Quoth the Raven, ‘Nevermore.’ And I said, ‘Nevermore? What kind of fucked up name is that?’
Much I marveled that this dirty-ass bird could speak, although his previous owners could have at least taught him to recite lyrics from my award-winning rap album For we cannot help but agreeing no living human being Had acid-tripped so hard as to be seeing a raven perched on a bust of Michael Jackson above his chamber door With a fucked-up name like Nevermore.
But the Raven, sitting on the accurately-depicted, plastic-surgery rendered nose of Michael Jackson, spoke only that one word. Bitch didn’t even move. Hours we spent in each other’s presence before I said, ‘Raven, you should really get the fuck out of my house.’ Then the bird said, ‘Nevermore.’
Startled at the fact the bird could talk, which I felt was not typical bird behavior, ‘Doubtless,’ said I, ‘Your unhappy and unmerciful previous master was Kobe, taking out his lack-of-sixth-ring frustration on you, sir raven, followed faster until his songs of melancholy bore the only word you now speak Of ‘Nevermore.’’
But the raven still had a way of making me giggle like a schoolgirl, So straight I wheeled a cushioned chair in front of bird and Michael and door And I got to work on trying to figure out what the fuck this bird Meant in croaking ‘Nevermore.’
Thus I sat engaged in guessing, until I realized this bird was starting to creep me the fuck out. Like that time I watched Edward Scissorhands and didn’t sleep for eight days. Then, methought, the air grew denser, like when a dementor or Michael Jordan walks into a room. ‘Wretch,’ I cried ‘Thy God has sent thee, but let me forget memories of this lost Ronald! And raven I thought you were here because you liked me!’ Quoth the raven, ‘Nevermore.’
‘Prophet!’ said I, ‘Thing of evil!’ – prophet still, if bird or devil! – Who sent you!? Was it my psychiatrist?! Go back and tell her that I’m doing perfectly fine, I already thanked her for all her help. I’m cured raven! But,’ said I, ‘I must know, is there any way I can escape from Kobe before My career doth come to an end? He’s batshit.’ Quoth the raven, ‘Nevermore.’
‘Prophet!’ said I, ‘Thing of evil!’ – prophet still, if bird or devil! – Will I win another championship, raven? Will I?!’ Quoth the raven, ‘Nevermore.’
‘Be that word our sign of parting friend!,’ I shrieked, ‘Take no Hennessey as a token of that atrocious lie thou has spoken Let my loneliness unbroken, and leave Michael alone!’ Here I threw my last ninja star at the bird, but to no harm, and simply Quoth the raven, ‘Nevermore.’
And the raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting, On the creepily accurate bust of Michael Jackson hanging above my chamber door Staring at me with them demon eyes each time I walk through my chamber door And the blood-coated lamp from that one Saturday night throws his shadow across the floor And the name ‘Metta World Peace’ Shall be lifted – Nevermore!