Poetry of Issue #7        Page 8

The Tingling of the Sell, or Marley's Visit to Bartleby

A man who rings a bell to sell
his roasted chestnuts, loved so well,
will very often share this story
of a jingly, tingly bell,

so when he strikes a puckish pose,
you’ll hear a scary tale he knows
(although, perhaps, it’s not as deep
as Poe’s astounding prose).

One very dark and stormy night,
an eve when fantasies took flight,
while he was roasting chestnuts
by his hot and fiery light,

just as he does each winter’s eve
for all the townsfolk, who’ll relieve
their cold hands and their appetites
before they’d take their leave;

at midnight, in the moonlight’s cream,
a vision, or perchance a dream,
did visit on that longest night
of winter’s dark’ning stream.

To his amazement ’peared a friend
whose health, long-past, had failed to mend,
and so, in death, they both had thought
their partnership met end.

Of course, he thought, a roasted nut
had gang agley within his gut,
much like the time three well-known ghosts
made voyage to Scrooge’s hut.

Although he knew the face quite well,
the name of Yorick rang a bell,
but that’s another ghostly tale
which other nights he’ll tell.

But now, his Marley had appeared;
a patron whom he’d not endeared.
“Great Caesar’s Ghost!” the specter said
with each step as it neared.

Spoke he, “When you were just a tot,
you AND your nose were full of snot,
and it was I who wiped you clean.
An orphan, were you not?”

“But when I gave you work to do
with salary enough for two,
Oh, wretched ingrate, your response?
‘I would prefer not to.’”

“Yet you refused to leave my shop
and stayed long after, though I’d stop
and lock the door and headed for
the tavern for a drop.”

“When I returned by early morn,
not having moved, you sat forlorn,
and so I rightly kicked you out,
although my heart was torn.”

“Now here you are. To make ends meet,
you sell your nuts upon the street.
A jingling bell to help you sell
warm chestnuts, soft and sweet.”

I boldly told him, “It’s not dire.
I’m loath to set the world on fire,
but here, my nuts are toasty warm,
and that’s my heart’s desire.”

“And every time I hear a jingle,
see the people come and mingle,
it’s not bells, but silver coins
which cause my ears to tingle.”

Said I, “Be off! You don’t look well—
first buy some nuts to eat in Hell.
You see, the sound that haunts my ears
is sell, sell, Sell, Sell, SELL!”

And as he took leave to return
to netherworlds or to his urn,
dour faced, he bade me this farewell:
“I hope your nuts ne’er burn.”