Not The Raven
Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of entomological lore,
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping–
Something crap, crap, crapping in my bedroom wall.
‘Tis the wind ,’ I muttered, Only this, and nothing more.’
Deep into the darkness peering, long I laid there wondering, fearing,
Doubting, dreaming damage I never dared to dream before.
But the silence was unbroken, and the darkness gave no token
And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, `Squirrel!’
Merely this and nothing more.
Back into my bedclothes turning, all my soul within me burning,
Soon again I heard a scratching somewhat louder than before.
Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore; –
‘Tis the wind and nothing more!’
Off I flung the covers, when, with many a fart and flutter,
I smelled a stately squirrel 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, scratched above my bedroom door –
Perched, and shat, and nothing more.
And the squirrel, never flitting, still is shitting, still is shitting
In the gap within the wall above my bedroom door;
And his toenails have all the seeming of a demon’s that is dreaming,
And my sleep beneath that shadow that lies scratching in the wall
Shall be uninterrupted – nevermore!