Whilst that grim, ungainly, ghastly Surplus still upon the floor
Went on croaking: “Nevermore!”
“Surplus!” said I, “by thy figure, which methinks I see grow bigger,
Whether Gladstone sent, or whether Fate has toss’d thee here to bore,
Tell me, desperate and daunted, by a score of failures haunted,
Soon by Childers to be taunted, tell me, tell me, I implore,
Is there—can I—shall I—ever get things straight—say, I implore?”
Quoth the Surplus: “Nevermore!”
“Surplus!” said I, “much I question, if I don’t to indigestion
Owe the vision of thy presence; still I’d ask thee this once more: