Both dark and dreary,
As I sat alone,
All tired and weary,
With thoughts of Uncle Tom,
Who is a bore,
As I sat there in my trappings,
There came a sudden tapping,
As if someone gently rapping,
Rapping upon my chamber door.
Have my thoughts betrayed me?
I whispered, dipping up my gravy,
Could that be Uncle Tom,
Who is a bore,
Rapping upon my chamber door?
No, 'tis the wind, nothing more,
But outside the wind blew no more,
And still there was a tapping,
A gentle, sullen rapping upon my chamber door.
Standing up and leaving my luncheon,
I took hold of my faithful truncheon,
And stalked my chamber door.
"Oh Uncle Tom I implore,
If that is you without my chamber door,
Know that I wish to see you no more,
For quite frankly you are a bore,
And I grow tired of your tales,
Of days of yore!"
But still came the tapping,
The gentle, sullen rapping,
Upon my chamber door.
I put down my truncheon,
For it had grown quite hefty,
And prepared to give a right good lefty,
If it were my Uncle Tom,
Who is a bore,
Standing tapping upon my chamber door.
I opened the door,
And to my suprise,
A raven flew past my eyes,
And perched upon a statue,
Of Posh Spice,
I just happen to keep above my chamber door.
"Ha!" I laughed
"'Twas a raven nothing more,
That was rapping,
A'rapping upon my chamber door,
And not my Uncle Tom,
Who is a bore,
It is seeking shelter,
From this night both dark and dreary
And is tired as I am weary,
Let the little fellow rest,
Upon the head,
Of the statue of Posh Spice,
I just happen to keep above my chamber door.
And to be sweet,
I offered it a treat,
But quoth the raven,
"Stick it up your bum, Snotface!"
I was shocked for sure,
For I did not know that ravens swore,
And I retreated to my chair once more,
To thoughts of Uncle Tom,
The family bore.
But quoth the raven,
"Stick it up your bum, Snotface!"
"Ooh you!" I shouted as I munched pork crackling,
"Did I not let you in when you were rapping,
Rapping on my chamber door?
The night is dark and dreary,
And we both are tired and weary,
A cessation of this swearing I implore,
And let my thoughts return to Uncle Tom,
Who is a bore!"
But quoth the raven,
"Stick it up your bum, Snotface!"
"Aaaaaaaargh!" I screamed at the little devil,
This reminds me of Cousin Ethel,
Who I recall was driven quite mental,
By practices both Satanic and Dental,
"I'll wring your neck with my bare hands,
I'll kill you where you now do stand,
Upon the head of a statue of Posh Spice,
I I just happen to keep above my chamber door,
And those words you shall speak nevermore!"
But as I ascended my chamber door,
I lost my grip and I did fall,
To land and bump my head on the floor,
And the last thing I saw,
Was the Raven still sitting above my chamber door,
And quoth the raven,
"Stick that up your bum, Snotface!"
Now on nights both dark and dreary,
Even if I'm tired and weary,
My thoughts no longer turn to Uncle Tom,
Who is still such a bore,
But to the raven,
Who still sits upon the head of a statue of Posh Spice,
I just happen to keep above my chamber door.
To see the original poem by Edgar Allen Poe click here