"Vincent" by Tim Burton

Listen to the poem and complete Vincent Malloy is seven years oldHe’s always polite and does what he’s toldFor a boy his age, he’s considerate and niceBut he wants to be just like Vincent PriceHe doesn’t mind living with his sister, dog and catsThough he’d rather share a home with spiders and batsThere he could reflect on the horrors he’s inventedAnd wander dark hallways, alone and tormentedVincent is nice when his aunt comes to see himBut imagines dipping her in wax for his wax museumHe likes to experiment on his dog AbercrombieIn the hopes of creating a horrible zombieSo he and his horrible zombie dogCould go searching for victims in the London fogHis thoughts, though, aren’t only of ghoulish crimesHe likes to paint and read to pass some of the timesWhile other kids read books like Go, Jane, Go!Vincent’s favourite author is Edgar Allen PoeOne night, while reading a gruesome taleHe read a passage that made him turn paleSuch horrible news he could not surviveFor his beautiful wife had been buried alive!He dug out her grave to make sure she was deadUnaware that her grave was his mother’s flower bedHis mother sent Vincent off to his roomHe knew he’d been banished to the tower of doomWhere he was sentenced to spend the rest of his lifeAlone with the portrait of his beautiful wifeWhile alone and insane encased in his tombVincent’s mother burst suddenly into the roomShe said: “If you want to, you can go out and playIt’s sunny outside, and a beautiful day”Vincent tried to talk, but he just couldn’t speakThe years of isolation had made him quite weakSo he took out some paper and scrawled with a pen:“I am possessed by this house, and can never leave it again”His mother said: “You’re not possessed, and you’re not almost deadThese games that you play are all in your headYou’re not Vincent Price, you’re Vincent MalloyYou’re not tormented or insane, you’re just a young boyYou’re seven years old and you are my sonI want you to get outside and have some real fun.”Her anger now spent, she walked out through the hallAnd while Vincent backed slowly against the wallThe room started to swell, to shiver and creakHis horrid insanity had reached its peakHe saw Abercrombie, his zombie slaveAnd heard his wife call from beyond the graveShe spoke from her coffin and made ghoulish demandsWhile, through cracking walls, reached skeleton handsEvery horror in his life that had crept through his dreamsSwept his mad laughter to terrified screams!To escape the madness, he reached for the doorBut fell limp and lifeless down on the floorHis voice was soft and very slowAs he quoted The Raven from Edgar Allen Poe:“and my soul from out that shadowthat lies floating on the floorshall be lifted?Nevermore…”