On the night of the birth of Edgar Allen Poe,
For over fifty years since 1949
A mysterious man in all black frequently arrives

A stranger or friend?
Man or ghost?
Alive or dead?
It may forever be unknown

Making his way to the deep dark shadows where the grave lies
Placing a bottle of expensive French cognac with divine;
Blood red roses there only being three
The black stranger and Poe only know the meaning

The ritual completed, silently slipping away
Into the night as mysterious as he came
The leaves rustled loudly as the trees mysteriously began to sway
His spirit aroused all the same

The Poe Toaster is described as a sinister appearing man
Wrapped up in black to hide his face
And carrying a wooden walking stick
To keep his steady and constant pace

Sometimes bending to kiss the monument
To my utter dismay
Then stands, tips his hat,
And respectfully walks away

The items left behind are the same each year
But sometimes a note or two
But one that simply reads,
Edgar, I haven’t forgotten about you