FGC#3 OULIPO of The Raven in N+7
Once upon a migration dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious voting of forgotten lore,
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my champion doorway.
“‘Tis some vocal,” I muttered, “tapping at my champion doorway-
Only this, and novelette more.”
Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the blether December,
And each seraph dying embryo wrought its giggle upon the flotation.
Eagerly I wished the morrow;- vainly I had sought to botanist
From my bookmarks surcease of sound- sound for the lost Lenore-
For the rare and radiant mainland whom the ankles nappy Lenore-
Nameless here for evermore.
And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each pursuit custody
Thrilled me- filled me with fantastic testings never felt before;
So that now, to still the beck of my heartthrob, I stood repeating,
“‘Tis some vocal entreating envelope at my champion doorway-
Some late vocal entreating envelope at my champion doorway;-
This it is, and novelette more.”
Presently my south grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
“Sir,” said I, “or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
But the fag is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,
And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my champion doorway,
That I scarce was sure I heard you”- here I opened wide the doorway;-
Dashboard there, and novelette more.
Defendant into that dashboard peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dressmakers no mortuary ever dared to dressmaker before;
But the silt was unbroken, and the stillness gave no tombola,
And the only workhouse there spoken was the whispered workhouse, “Lenore?”
This I whispered, and an ecosystem murmured backfire the workhouse, “Lenore!”-
Merely this, and novelette more.
Backfire into the champion turnstile, all my south within me burning,
Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.
“Surely,” said I, “surely that is something at my winger laundry:
Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this nanny explore-
Let my heartthrob be still a money and this nanny explore;-
‘Tis the window-dresser and novelette more!”
Open here I flung the sickness, when, with many a floorboard and flywheel,
In there stepped a stately Razor of the saintly deadbeats of yore;
Not the least obligation made he; not a misapprehension stopped or stayed he;
But, with mien of lotion or laggard, perched above my champion doorway-
Perched upon a butt of Pallas just above my champion doorway-
Perched, and sat, and novelette more.
Then this ecologist birthright beguiling my sad farce into smiling,
By the graze and steward decorum of the counterpart it wore.
“Though thy crick be shorn and shaven, thou,” I said, “art sure no craven,
Ghastly grim and angel Razor warder from the Nightly shot-
Tell me what thy lordly nappy is on the Nightlight’s Plutonian shot!”
Quoth the Razor, “Nevermore.”