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Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore,
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
`'Tis some visitor,' I muttered, `tapping at my chamber door -
Only this, and nothing more.'

Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December,
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
Eagerly I wished the morrow; - vainly I had sought to borrow
From my books surcease of sorrow - sorrow for the lost Lenore -
For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels named Lenore -
Nameless here for evermore.

And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain
Thrilled me - filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating
`'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door -
Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door; -
This it is, and nothing more,'

Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
`Sir,' said I, `or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,
And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,
That I scarce was sure I heard you' - here I opened wide the door; -
Darkness there, and nothing more.

Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before;
But the silence was unbroken, and the darkness gave no token,
And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, `Lenore!'
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, `Lenore!'
Merely this and nothing more.

Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,
Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.
`Surely,' said I, `surely that is something at my window lattice;
Let me see then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore -
Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore; -
'Tis the wind and nothing more!'

Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,
In there stepped a stately raven of the saintly days of yore.
Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;
But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door -
Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door -
Perched, and sat, and nothing more.

Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,
`Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou,' I said, `art sure no craven.
Ghastly grim and ancient raven wandering from the nightly shore -
Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore!'
Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'

Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,
Though its answer little meaning - little relevancy bore;
For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door -
Bird or beast above the sculptured bust above his chamber door,
With such name as `Nevermore.'

But the raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only,
That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.
Nothing further then he uttered - not a feather then he fluttered -
Till I scarcely more than muttered `Other friends have flown before -
On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before.'
Then the bird said, `Nevermore.'

Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
`Doubtless,' said I, `what it utters is its only stock and store,
Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful disaster
Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore -
Till the dirges of his hope that melancholy burden bore
Of "Never-nevermore."'

But the raven still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling,
Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird and bust and door;
Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking
Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore -
What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore
Meant in croaking `Nevermore.'

This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core;
This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining
On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o'er,
But whose velvet violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o'er,
She shall press, ah, nevermore!

Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
Swung by Seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor.
`Wretch,' I cried, `thy God hath lent thee - by these angels he has sent thee
Respite - respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore!
Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe, and forget this lost Lenore!'
Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'

`Prophet!' said I, `thing of evil! - prophet still, if bird or devil! -
Whether tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,
Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted -
On this home by horror haunted - tell me truly, I implore -
Is there - is there balm in Gilead? - tell me - tell me, I implore!'
Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'

`Prophet!' said I, `thing of evil! - prophet still, if bird or devil!
By that Heaven that bends above us - by that God we both adore -
Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,
It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels named Lenore -
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden, whom the angels named Lenore?'
Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'

`Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!' I shrieked upstarting -
`Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore!
Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!
Leave my loneliness unbroken! - quit the bust above my door!
Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!'
Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'

And the raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming,
And the lamp-light o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
Shall be lifted - nevermore!

-Edgar Allen Poe

"Fuck those fucking ravens," said Albert B. Phlegmbotomist, nature lover and eater of tiny pens, "it's those poor fucking crows that have to worry."

Albert was loathe to surrender to the sorry fact that much of the time, the birds most sought for human consumption are fucking chickens, fucking turkeys, fucking Cornish Game Hens and fucking ducks.  On the day after a political cycle like this one, the poor fucking crows have to go into hiding, as bizarre, one-eyed, scrawny-necked, pimple faced chefs and hunters go out into the wild seeking victims for their odd and foul recipes to serve the banquet of crow that will be force-fed to pundits, prognosticators and politicos all across the continent.

For starters, there is Joe Fucking Scarborough.  According to the Crow Feasting Formula established by the Bureau of Tortured Irony in 1843, Joe will have to consume no less than seventy five baked fucking crows, thirteen roasted fucking crows and one raw fucking crow, which should be the bitterest meal of all.  Everyone knows fucking crow tastes like fucking shit, and that's why so many people should be more careful of what they put out there.

On August 15th, I swear I posted

I am going to predict the following:

Obama wins the Electoral Vote by 298 to 240.

50.1% of Popular Vote.

Senate Dem 51 Rep 49

House Dem 220 Rep 215

I was told I would be eating a LOT of fucking crow when those predictions didn't pan out.  But I really wasn't going as far out on a limb as most people thought, other than my bold House prediction.  And, on the site where I posted those predictions, I was actually the most accurate!  Mostly because a lot of people saw President Obama LOSING the election.

The Department of Natural Stupidity has severe guidelines for serving fucking crow.

"The fucking crow is a particularly harsh-tasting bird, and is possibly one of the most filthy, disease-ridden vermin to ever grace the world.  Six fucking crows are enough to give a man a case of nutroxillism, which is a completely made up disease that causes the stomach to turn into a Volkswagen Beatle, normally named Ringo."

As if that wasn't enough, the book of Great Republican Sayings has an entry on eating fucking crow:

"NEVER eat fucking crow.  Just pretend whatever you fucking said means something else entirely, and then accuse your opponent of hating America."

This was written in 2001.  I was next to a boy at that time, and since then, that boy has really annoyed me.  Since then, I have been next to a bar, and the drinks have made the boy far more tolerable.

So instead of bitching me out for fucking swearing too much, and going to more pithy and mature diaries on the Daily Great Fucking Satan, please post more things about people who should be eating fucking crow, and crowing about what sort of dire recipes and quantities upon which these fucking cretins should be tortured by.  I would apologize for the English in that last fucking sentence, but the book of Great Republican Sayings says:

"Always insist that everyone speak fucking English, even if you are not particularly enamored of how it's use is."

Poll

The Fucking Crows

42%3 votes
14%1 votes
14%1 votes
28%2 votes

| 7 votes | Vote | Results

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