Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore!"
"Then excuse me, we'll be parting, doleful fowl," I cried, upstarting;
"Get thee back to—the Red River, or the Nile's sand-cumbered shore!
Leave no 'Magazine' as token of the twaddle you have spoken.
What? BRITANNIA stoney-broken? Quit her bust above my door.
Take thy hook from the War Office; take thy beak from off my door!"
Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore!"
And the Raven still is sitting, croaking statements most unfitting,
On BRITANNIA's much-peeled bust that's placed above my Office-door,
And if Pangloss, e'en in seeming, lent an ear to his dark dreaming,