The Raven Up-to-Date
Last night while I pondered dreary, grouchy, sore, and limp and leary,
O’er the dope in my apartments, far up on the thirteenth floor;
As I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
“’Tis some bill collector,” thought I, “rapping at my chamber door—
Only that and nothing more.”
Ah, distinctly I remember, I was thinking of September,
And the finish of the league race—what the future had in store;
And I started prophesying where the pennant would be flying,
Till at last I gave up trying, feeling very sad and sore,
For the dope was so uncertain that I gave up sad and sore,
Grumbling slowly: “Nevermore.”
As I sat there, nearly bug house, longing for a near-by jug house,
Once again I heard the tapping, tapping at my chamber door;
So I oped it, shrinking craven, wishing for some happy haven,
When, behold! there flapped a Raven, stalking in across the floor—
Stalking Edgar Allen Poeish, right across my rugless floor.
Ach, du Leiber! I was sore.
“Raven!” cried I, “why the devil have you come here? On the level,
I thought Mr. Poe had written you would enter nevermore.
What has brought you, you intriguer, with that look so keen and eager?
Speak up there, you old bush leaguer; why have you returned, you bore?
State your trouble and then skip, sir; leave me quickly, I implore!”
Quoth the Raven: “What’s the score?”