write me a poem in the style of Edgar Allan Poe about a grumpy man and a lettuce

The Lettuce

On a midnight raw and gusty, in a kitchen dim and dusty,
Sat a man whose chief amusement was to grumble and deplore;
And his supper, pale and leafy, lay beside a slab of beef he
Had pronounced entirely tasteless ere it ever reached his door.
“Must I suffer this?” he muttered, glaring down in wrathful awe—
“Rabbit fodder! Nothing more!”

Then the lettuce stirred—or seemed to—and its pallid leaves, which gleamed blue
In the moonlight, made him shudder as he’d never done before.
From its heart, so tightly folded, came a whisper, cold and scolded,
Like a schoolmaster long buried underneath a cellar floor:
“Though you salt me, though you fault me, though you curse me to my core—
You are bitter. I am more.”

Up he sprang, that ancient sinner, crying, “Silence! You are dinner!”
And he seized a silver fork his father’s father once had bore;
But the leaves began their rustling with a dry, derisive bustling,
Till he dropped it, trembling, stumbling, halfway to the pantry door.
“Dreadful cabbage! Fiend in salad! What foul fate have you in store?”
Quoth the lettuce, “Cholesterol.”

Long he stood in dark reflection, contemplating his complexion
And the many pounds of butter he had purchased heretofore.
Then, with vinegar and sighing, with a look of someone dying,
He consumed the leafy phantom, though he hated every chore.
Now he haunts the kitchen nightly, growling, slightly less than sprightly:
“Needs more dressing. Nothing more.”