The Twelve Days of Christmas: Day 5

Jeremy's Status Message Proudly Presents The Twelve Days of Christmas:

On the Fifth Day of Christmas,
Edgar Allan Poe gave to me...

On a dark and somber evening, as I sit in darkness grieving,
Over a quintet of loves, my soul is worn, my heart still clings,
As I mourn my tears are flowing, I can feel the cold wind blowing,
I hold this package surely knowing, knowing the heartbreak it brings,
All that's left from five lost loves, I take a breath, untie the strings -
There they lay, five golden rings.

On the floor, I'm crumpled, heaving, through my pain and stunted breathing,
Suddenly I am perceiving something near me on the floor.
'Tis a bird, it's wounded, crawling, both of us on the ground sprawling,
In the eaves four friends are calling for that bird upon that floor.
Four birds calling from the eaves, I hear them as their sorrows pour,
But their friend will fly no more.

Now we five - we mourn together, you might say "birds of a feather",
Quite a sight to see this night, yours truly with these mourning four.
Yet another noise distracts me, pecking on my door attracts me,
So I haul my sorry self and go see who is at my door.
I thrust it open and I ask "Who's pecking on this mourner's door?"
Three hens gravely say, "Bonjour."

You could say I am quite stricken, never have I heard a chicken,
Say "Hello" in English, let alone in the French tongue before.
I will try to cut some slack, for also they are dressed in black,
They're clearly here to join the pack of mourners based on what they wore.
As if that is not enough, two turtle doves walk through my door.
I guess there's always room for more.

I think I'm taking things in stride, for no more birds shall be denied,
In fact I have just called outside, "Excuse me birds, but are there more?"
A partridge from my tree of pears has joined us and he also wears,
A yarmulke and shawl of prayers, he is the last, I close the door.
Now eleven mourners sit and long for those with us no more.
It's less lonely than before.

Special Blog Bonus: I was trying very hard to use the lines:

"I hate to pry, but must implore, Have you ever won a war?"
Three French hens said nothing more.

I just couldn't make it work. Oh well. If you don't know this, I really enjoy Raven-izing stuff. This isn't the first time I've broken something down into iambic pentameter and won't be the last.

Oh, one other complaint. Because I had to rhyme with "rings" I got stuck using "brings" and "clings", so the whole poem had to be in the present tense. That got a little awkward, but I think I pulled it off.