Edgar Allen Poo

Once upon a logless dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,
Under Andy’s taint the curious volume of forgotten log—
While I nodded, nearly drooling, suddenly there came a slidding,
As of some one gently crapping, crapping at my chamber door—
"‘Tis some Slidder,” I muttered, “crapping at my chamber door—
Only shit and nothing more.”

Ah, the stinky I remember it was in the bleak December;
And each separate flying rear-ender brought its host upon the floor.
Eagerly I wished for log-o;—vainly I had sought to borrow
From my books surcease of sorrow—sorrow for the lost Log-nore—
For the rare and radiant sliddin’ whom the angels name Log-nore—
Logless here nevermore.

And the silken, sad, butt-hurtin’ rustling of shill’s jimmies certain
Thrilled me—filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
So that now, to not shill the clogging of my throat, I stood repeating,
"‘Tis some logger entreating entrance at my chamber door—
Some late logger entreating entrance at my chamber door;—
Shit it is and nothing more.”

Presently my throat grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
“Andy,” said I, “or Sixxum, truly your shit logs I implore;
But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came crapping,
And so faintly you came slidding, slidding at my chamber door,
That I scarce was sure I heard you”—here I opened wide the door;—
Andy’s there and nothing more.

Deep into that asshole peering, long I stood there wondering, dreaming,
Shouting, steaming creams no logger ever dared to dream before;
But the silence was then broken, and the sliddness gave some chokin’,
And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, “Log-nore?”
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, “Log-nore!”—
Merely shit and nothing more.

Back into my throat churning, all my soul within me burning,
Soon again I heard a crapping somewhat louder than before.
“Surely," said I, “surely that is something at my window latt-ass;
Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this shits-tery explore—
Let my heart be clogged a moment and this shits-tery explore;—
‘Tis his wind and nothing more!”

Open here I flung the shitter, when, with many a fart and flutter,
In there slidd a stately shit log of the taintly days of yore;
Not the least creamy made he; not a minute stopped or emptied;
But, with mien of steam and dreamy, perched above my open throat—
Perched upon a bust of Sixxus just above my chamber door—
Perched, and shat, and nothing more.