Once upon a Sunday dreary, while I labored, weak and weary,
Over many a song converted from from too many parts to four —
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my Kin House door—
"'Tis Hobbelion," I muttered, "tapping at my Kin House door—
Only this and nothing more."
When the group gathered, horses all winded and lathered
From the ride to Practice from many a land and shore
Some were still walking when Bri and Hobbs were talking
Commenting and squawking, squawking about the Cowbell of Moor
No one knew it, they all did eschew it, the point was made sore
Moaned the band... "Cowbell of Moor!"
Hope flared briefly, as we agreed that, chiefly,
A Cowbell was a Cowbell, just an Agogo at the core
Yet those who were true, who really, truly knew
Said tone of the Moor-type, beyond just plain bard-hype,
Was woodier, as it should(-ee-er), (rhymes can be such a chore)
Moaned the band.... "Cowbell of Moor!"
Finally, my heart breaking, I stood, with knees shaking
And l searched my skills listed, to see if I had missed it,
The Mentoring of the Cowbell of Moor.
There it was! Taunting! It didn't seem daunting
So I whooped and I hollered, Hobbelion was collared,
Up came the roar: "COWBELL OF MOOR!"
And somewhere in Lands Eternal, though he feared the Infernal,
E. A. Poe, beset by abuses, crass, without excuses, abuses of his words of yore -
Wept, then began screaming; and yearned for Absinthe dreaming.
Back in Mortal Lands, with studios and wild hair bands
Christopher Walken, be-chained, gave his infamous refrain:
"MOOR COWBELL!"
