I drafted the following in the early nineties as an exercise in stylistic imitation of a passage from Poe’s “Fall of the House of Usher.” Looking afresh at this portfolio relic from that era, I was surely having some fun at Poe’s stylistic expense. Not to be taken too seriously, here may be the worst sentence ever written.

Poe, the source of disinspiration noted herein.

During the course of an endless, seemingly infinite term in the late winter of the year, as the minds of prepubescent scholars grew as dull as the ponderous gray clouds which attended the seasonal gloom, a learned pedagogue, grasping firmly the cold iron railing to assist his laborious ascent of the lofty heights leading to the upper chambers of philological endeavor wherein was situated the faculty restroom, by accidental misplacement of his left foot on the discarded encasement of tropical banana fruit, was dashed violently and precipitously to the hardened concrete of the stairway steps, where his rigid, lifeless corpse was discovered some moments later, much to the delight of the juvenile learners who merrily ┬ácelebrated because now no penalty would be exacted for the woeful and incomplete condition of their last night’s homework, due to have been inspected by their lately-deceased mentor within the next hour.

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