O’er the wall there flew a Raven, of the stormy days of yore.
An old bird of aspect cheeky, with a croak extremely creaky,
And a bill extremely “Beaky,” and a curl that hung before,
Like the curl once worn by Dizzy, which, you know, hung down before,
And he croaked out “Nevermore!”
Then methought the air grew denser, and he changed to Mr. Spencer,
And he gibbered, ghostly, ghoul-like, on the garden’s tufted floor.
“Wretch!” I cried, “from distant Berlin, cease thy fierce moustache from twirlin’;
Tell me, for my brain is whirlin’, will the Fates my power restore?
Will the dissidents surrender and once more my power restore?”