Once when I was feeling cheery, I found a poem, bleak and dreary
by a man who died at fortyish, more than a hundred years before.
While I started fairly happy, suddenly I felt real crappy
and soon I got plenty sappy, sappy as his metaphor.
"This is pitiful," I muttered, "to be sappy as a metaphor."
I read this verse, and nothing more:
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."