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Once upon a midnight dreary |
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as I pondered, weak and weary |
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over many a quaint and curious |
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volume of forgotten lore |
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while I nodded, nearly napping |
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suddenly there came a tapping |
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as of some one gently rapping |
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rapping at my chamber door |
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"'Tis some visitor," I muttered |
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"tapping at my chamber door |
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only this and nothing more." |
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Muttering I got up weakly |
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always I've had trouble sleeping |
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stumbling upright my mind racing |
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furtive thoughts flowing once more |
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I, there hoping for some sunrise |
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happiness would be a surprise |
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loneliness no longer a prize |
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rapping at my chamber door |
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seeking out the clever bore |
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lost in dreams forever more |
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only this and nothing more |
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Hovering my pulse was racing |
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stale tobacco my lips tasting |
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scotch sitting upon my basin |
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remnants of the night before |
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came again |
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infernal tapping on the door |
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in my mind jabbing |
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is it in or outside rapping |
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calling out to me once more |
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the fit and fury of Lenore |
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nameless here forever more |
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And the silken sad uncertain |
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rustling of the purple curtain |
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thrilled me, filled me |
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with fantastic terrors never felt before |
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so that now, oh wind, stood breathing |
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hoping yet to calm my breathing |
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"'Tis some visitor entreating |
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entrance at my chamber door |
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some lost visitor entreating |
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entrance at my chamber door |
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this it is, and nothing more." |
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Deep into the darkness peering |
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long I stood there |
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wondering fearing |
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doubting dreaming fantasies |
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no mortal dared to dream before |
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but the silence was unbroken |
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and the stillness gave no token |
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and the only word there spoken |
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was the whispered name, "Lenore." |
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this I thought |
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and out loud whispered from my lips |
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the foul name festered |
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echoing itself |
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merely this, and nothing more |
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Back into my chamber turning |
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every nerve within me burning |
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when once again I heard a tapping |
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somewhat louder than before |
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"surely," said I |
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surely that is something at my iron staircase |
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open the door to see what threat is |
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open the window, free the shutters |
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let us this mystery explore |
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oh, bursting heart be still this once |
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and let this mystery explore |
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it is the wind and nothing more |
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Just one epithet I muttered as inside |
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I gagged and shuddered |
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when with manly flirt and flutter |
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in there flew a stately raven |
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sleek and ravenous as any foe |
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not the least obeisance made he |
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not a minutes gesture towards me |
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of recognition or politeness |
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but perched above my chamber door |
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this fowl and salivating visage |
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insinuating with its knowledge |
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perched above my chamber door |
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silent sat and staring |
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nothing more |
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Askance, askew |
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the self's sad fancy smiles at you I swear |
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at this savage viscous countenance it wears |
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Though you show here shorn and shaven |
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and I admit myself forlorn and craven |
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ghastly grim and ancient raven |
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wandering from the opiate shores |
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tell me what thy lordly name is |
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that you are not nightmare sewage |
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some dire powder drink or inhalation |
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framed from flames of downtown lore |
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quotes the raven, "nevermore." |
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And the raven sitting lonely |
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staring sickly at my male sex only |
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that one word |
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as if his soul in that one word |
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he did outpour, "pathetic." |
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nothing farther than he uttered |
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not a feather then he fluttered |
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till finally was I that muttered as I stared |
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dully at the floor |
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"other friends have flown and left me |
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flown as each and every hope has flown before |
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as you no doubt will fore the morrow." |
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but the bird said, "never, more." |
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Then I felt the air grow denser |
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perfumed from some unseen incense |
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as though accepting angelic intrusion |
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when in fact I felt collusion |
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before the guise of false memories respite |
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respite through the haze of cocaine's glory |
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I smoke and smoke the blue vial's glory |
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to forget |
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at once |
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the base Lenore |
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quoth the raven, "nevermore." |
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"Prophet," said I, "thing of evil |
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prophet still, if bird or devil |
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by that heaven that bend above us |
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by that God we both ignore |
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tell this soul with sorrow laden |
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willful and destructive intent |
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how had lapsed a pure heart lady |
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to the greediest of needs |
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sweaty arrogant dickless liar |
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who ascribed to nothing higher |
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than a jab from prick to needle |
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straight to betrayal and disgrace |
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the conscience showing not a trace." |
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quoth the raven, "nevermore." |
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"Be that word our sign of parting |
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bird or fiend," I yelled upstarting |
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"get thee back into the tempest |
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into the smoke filled bottle's shore |
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leave no black plume as a token |
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of the slime thy soul hath spoken |
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leave my loneliness unbroken |
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quit as those have quit before |
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take the talon from my heart |
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and see that I can care no more |
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whatever mattered came before |
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I vanish with the dead Lenore." |
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quoth the raven, "nevermore." |
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But the raven, never flitting |
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still is sitting silent sitting |
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above a painting silent painting |
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of the forever silenced whore |
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and his eyes have all the seeming |
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of a demon's that is dreaming |
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and the lamplight over him |
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streaming throws his shadow to the floor |
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I love she who hates me more |
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I love she who hates me more |
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and my soul shall not be lifted from that shadow |
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nevermore |