Once in an interrogation, while I sat in perturbation,
On a creaking, groaning, whining, pitifully protesting chair—
While I leaned there came the prospect of nailing a guilty suspect,
With a gaunt and gormless aspect, and a mass of curling hair—
"'Tis some murderer," I muttered, "underneath that curling hair"—
As I leaned back on my chair.
After what he told the media, I expected a much speedier
Confession to be wrested from him in an hour or so.
Not the least cooperation gave he in the police station;
But, to our exasperation, answered only yes or no—
Put both hands upon the table looking rarely to and fro—
Sat and uttered "I don't know".
Much I marvelled at how slickly Stayvun minimalistically,
Answered everything mystically with a simple yes or no;
For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
Ever yet was blest with seeing such an entertaining show—
As to see a suspect answer every question like a pro,
With a simple "I don't know".
But the Stayvun, sitting lonely at the table, still spoke only
Those few words, as if those words were all the words that he did know.
Further questions I attempted, but with none of them exempted,
His vocabulary emptied he with only yes and no.
In befuddlement he left me, sat with nothing left to show.
Saying simply, "I don't know".
Startled at the perp's demeanour, half expecting something meaner,
"Doubtless," said I, "what he utters is his only stock and store
Never having been arrested, surely must his nerves be tested,
Having all his hopes invested in escaping what's in store—
Till 'yes', 'no' and 'I don't know' were all on which he had to draw—
Only this and nothing more".
But the Stayvun still beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
I reclined back on my seat and let my partner have a go;
My red-shirted partner trying to confirm that he was lying,
Tried to coax him to complying with a sympathetic show,
To determine what this ghastly, gaunt and ominous little bro
Meant in croaking "I don't know".
"Stayvun, your mistake was rookie-tier like trying to steal a cookie
From your grandmother but lookie here, you're dealing with a pro
For we know that of your haiyur, many follicles were theiyur,
In the room where you dismembered Lauren Giddings, yes, we know!
You feel bad about it Stayvun, now confess and tell me so".
But the Stayvun just said "no".
Then said he, "Stayvun, you strike me as someone who doesn't like me
Though our friendship be unlikely, I've been patient even so.
Ever more you try my patience—what manner of conversations
Can be shared with an acquaintance, only made of yes and no?
Kindly now repay my patience and say more than yes or no!"
Quoth the Stayvun "I don't know".
Then the red-shirted detective—of procedures irrespective—
Started flinging such invective at that creepy so-and-so,
Peppered with questions impelling answers from that foul-smelling,
Campus dormitory-dwelling homicidal little bro:
"Tell us why and how you did it?—if you did it, tell me so!"
Quoth the Stayvun, "I don't know".
"Answer me as I have bidden—let the truth no more be hidden!
Did you kill her?" "No I didn't"—this the Stayvun told me so.
"Tell us how you did the murder; she was screaming, man, you hurt her",
Said the red-shirted detective with a tone of piteous woe—
"Did you send her to the morgue where sits a tag upon her toe?"
Quoth the Stayvun, simply, "no".
"Be that word our sign in parting, little man!" I shrieked, upstarting—
"Get thee back into the holding cell and the Night's Plutonian shore!
Leave no haiyur as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!
Leave my chaiyur bent and broken!—To thy cell and lock the door!
Take thy hands from off the table and consider what's in store!
Video games nevermore".
And the Stayvun, never quitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
In the lights of that interrogation room's fluorescent glow;
And the questions asked of Stayvun went unanswered like the Raven,
In this poem that I'm riffing on by Edgar Allen Poe;
And the questions asked of Stayvun go unanswered even so,
All except for "I don't know".
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