I beheld him mix, “be off! you drive me mad—it’s striking four.
Leave the house and something in it; if you go on at the gin, it
Wont hold out another minute. Leave the house and shut the door—
Take your beak from out my gin, and take your body through the door!”
Quoth the Vulture, “Never more!”
And the Vulture never flitting—still is sitting, still is sitting,
Gulping down my stout by gallons, and my oysters by the score;
And the beast, with no more breeding than a heathen savage feeding,
The new carpet’s tints unheeding, throws his shells upon the floor.
And his smoke from out my curtains, and his stains from out my floor,