Raven the Little Rascal Page #3

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Yes, and I consider it my duty

to wrestle you away

from that gun-toting Philistine.

And into the arms of you,

of all people?

- Who better?

- Then why antagonize him?

I can't help it.

I despise people who despise me.

Edgar, we need to talk.

- What is Carl eating?

- A heart.

- A human heart?

- Mm-hm.

- How in heaven did you come by it?

- An admirer works at the morgue.

I was searching for inspiration.

So tell me again exactly...

how much... money you made

from your self-proclaimed

world-famous poem about that bird?

Raven. $9. But did I mention

that it's world-famous?

Edgar... Edgar.

We can't go on like this.

Emily, what do you want?

I want you to get up off your knees

unless you intend to use

that position for another purpose.

The imagination reels

with possibilities.

But what did you have in mind

specifically?

A proposal.

You mean marriage?

It's not such a horrible thought.

People still do it from time to time.

- Really? When?

- When they're in love, I suppose.

If I were in love with that person,

would I think about her all the time?

Most likely.

And would I spend

every waking moment

desiring to smother the other

with affection?

It has been described as such.

Emily, you are my greatest -

and only - inspiration.

Emily Hamilton,

will you be my wife?

Yes.

I love you.

You ridiculous man.

Now, what do we do about

your dear, dear, gun-toting father'?

I've been thinking about that.

We'll tell him at my birthday ball,

in front of all of Baltimore.

If I were a better man,

I'd forbid it.

- But you're not.

- I know.

I found some possibilities

for you, Inspector.

All are gruesome, if you ask me.

"A careful search soon

brought to light the hidden spring.

"I pressed it,

and, satisfied with the discovery,

"forbore to upraise the sash."

That's it.

Edgar Allan Poe.

Find the Raven, never flitting

still is sitting, still is sitting

On that pallid bust of Pallas

just above my chamber door;

And his eyes have all the seeming

of a demon's that is dreaming,

And the lamp-light o'er him steaming

throws his shadow on the oor;

My soul from out that shadow

that lies oating on the oor

Shall be lifted...

nevermore.

Who's next?

It's called

"The Buttery and the Bee".

An exquisite title, Mrs. Bradley.

"The buttery to her brother bee

did sing a song of spring.

'"Come, listen to my ode of thee,

thou honey-making thing..."

Stop, please.

It's terrible. I suspected it was.

"Thou honey-making thing"?

- I attempted to rhyme the lyric.

- You've succeeded.

The juxtaposition

of the beauty of nature

with the whores

of our recently mechanized society,

reducing brother bee to nothing more

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