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This is note even clever, It is minor drool on the keyboard attack, 6 points.

Let me write you some poetry of 150 points:

The Raven

Once upon a midnight dreadry, 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 someone gently rapping, rapping at my chamber

door.

”’Tis some visitor,” I muttered, “tapping at my chamber

door;

Only this, and nothing more.”

Ah, distinctly I remember, it was in the bleak December,

And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon

the floor.

Eagerly I wished the morrow; vainly I had sought to borrow

From my books surcease of surrow, sorrow for the lost

Lenore,.

For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name

Lenore,

Nameless here forevermore.

And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain

Thrilled me—-filled me with fantastic terrors never felt

before;

So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood

repeating,

”’Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber

door,

Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door.

This is it, and nothing more.”

Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,

“Sir,” said I, “or madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;

But the fact is, I was napping, and so gently you came

rapping,

And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my cham-

ber door,

That I scarce was sure I heard you.” Here I opened

wide the door;—-

Darkness there, and nothing more.

Deep into the darkness peering, long I stood there, won-

dering, fearing

Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortals ever dared to

dream before;

But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no

token,

And the only word there spoken was the whispered word,

“Lenore?”,

This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word,

“Lenore!”

Merely this, and nothing more.

Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me

burning,

Soon again I heard a tapping, something louder than

before,

“Surely,” said I, “surely, that is something at my window

lattice.

Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore.

Let my heart be still a moment, and this mystery explore.

‘Tis the wind, and nothing more.”

Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and

flutter,

In there stepped a stately raven, of the saintly days of

yore.

Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or

stayed he;

But with mien of lord or lady, perched above my cham-

ber door.

Perched upon a bust of Pallas, just above my chamber

door,

Perched, and sat, and nothing more.

Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,

By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it

wore,

“Though thy crest be shorn and shaven thou,” I said, “art

sure no craven,

Ghastly, grim, and ancient raven, wandering from the

nightly shore.

Tell me what the lordly name is on the Night’s Pluton-

ian shore.”

Quoth the raven, “Nevermore.”

Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so

plainly,

Though its answer little meaning, little relevancy bore;

For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being

Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his cham-

ber door,

Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his cham-

ber door,

With such name as “Nevermore.”

But the raven, sitting lonely on that placid bust, spoke only

That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did

outpour.

Nothing further then he uttered; not a feather then he

fluttered;

Till I scarcely more than muttered,”Other friends have

flown before;

On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown

before.”

Then the bird said,”Nevermore.”

Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,

“Doubtless,” said I, “what it utters is its only stock and

store,

Caught from some unhappy master, whom unmerciful

disaster

Followed fast and followed faster, till his songs one

burden bore,—-

Till the dirges of his hope that melancholy burden bore

Of “Never—-nevermore.”

But the raven still beguiling all my fancy into smiling,

Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird and

bust and door;,

Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking

Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of

yore,

What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous

bird of yore

Meant in croaking, “Nevermore.”

Thus I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing

To the fowl, whose fiery eyes now burned into my

bosom’s core;

This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease re-

clining

On the cushion’s velvet lining that the lamplight gloated

o’er,

But whose velvet violet lining with the lamplight gloating

o’er

She shall press, ah, nevermore!

Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an

unseen censer

Swung by seraphim whose footfalls tinkled on the tufted

floor.

“Wretch,” I cried, “thy God hath lent thee — by these

angels he hath sent thee

Respite—-respite and nepenthe from thy memories of

Lenore!

Quaff, O quaff this kind nepenthe, and forget this lost

Lenore!”

Quoth the raven, “Nevermore!”

“Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil!—prophet still, if bird or

devil!

Whether tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee

here ashore,

Desolate, yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted—

On this home by horror haunted—tell me truly, I implore:

Is there—is there balm in Gilead?—tell me—tell me I im-

plore!”

Quoth the raven, “Nevermore.”

“Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil—prophet still, if bird or

devil!

By that heaven that bends above us—by that God we

both adore—

Tell this soul with sorrow laden, if, within the distant

Aidenn,

It shall clasp a sainted maiden, whom the angels name

Lenore—-

Clasp a rare and radiant maiden, whom the angels name

Lenore?

Quoth the raven, “Nevermore.”

“Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!’ I shrieked,

upstarting—

“Get thee back into the tempest and the Night’s Pluton-

ian shore!

Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath

spoken!

Leave my loneliness unbroken! — quit the bust above

my door!

Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form

from off my door!”

Quoth the raven, “Nevermore.”

And the raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting

On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;

And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon’s that is

dreaming.

And the lamplight o’er him streaming throws the shadow

on the floor;

And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on

the floor

Shall be lifted—-nevermore!

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