Once upon a midnight dreary, 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 some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
“’Tis some pitiful opponent” I muttered, “tapping at my playoff chances—
Only this and nothing more.”
Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December;
And each separate player retirement wrought its ghost upon the floor.
Eagerly I wished the morrow;—vainly I had sought to borrow
From my TPE surcease of sorrow—sorrow for the lost Ultimus—
For the rare and radiant trophy whom the angels name Ultimus —
Nameless here for evermore.
And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each blowout win
Thrilled me—filled me with fantastic triumph never felt before;
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating
“’Tis some pitiful opponent entreating entrance at my playoff chances—
Some late visitor entreating entrance at my playoff chances;—
This it is 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 winning, and so gently you came rapping,
And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my playoff chances,
That I scarce was sure I beat you”—here I opened wide the playoff;—
Darkness there and nothing more.
Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no team 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, “Ultimus?”
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, “Ultimus?”—
Merely this and nothing more.
Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,
Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.
“Surely,” said I, “surely that is something at my playoff chances;
Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore—
Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore;—
’Tis the Yeti and nothing more!”
Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,
In there stepped a stately fat Yeti 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 playoff chances—
Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my playoff chances—
Perched, and sat, and nothing more.
Then this white fat Yeti beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,
“Though thy fur be shorn and shaven, thou,” I said, “art sure no craven,
Ghastly grim and ancient Yeti wandering from the Rocky Mountains—
Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night’s Plutonian shore!”
Quoth the Yeti “WOFORD MUMZY TAKE MY DOOT DOOT.”
Much I marvelled this ungainly weird specimen we don’t know about 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 Yeti above his playoff chances—
Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his playoff chances,
With such name as “WOFORD MUMZY TAKE MY DOOT DOOT.”
But the Yeti, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only
Those six words, as if his soul in those six words he did outpour.
Nothing farther then he uttered—not a hair then he fluttered—
Till I scarcely more than muttered “Other friends have made the playoffs before—
On the morrow he will leave me, as my Hopes have failed me before.”
Then the bird said “WOFORD MUMZY TAKE MY DOOT DOOT.”
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 ‘DOOT DOOOOOOOT - WOFORD MUMZY TAKE MY DOOT DOOT’.”
But the Yeti still beguiling all my fancy into smiling,
Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of Yeti, and bust and door;
Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking
Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous monster of yore—
What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous monster of yore
Meant in croaking “WOFORD MUMZY TAKE MY DOOT DOOT.”
This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
To the creature whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom’s core;
This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining
On the cushion’s velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o’er,
But whose velvet-violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o’er,
She shall press, ah, DOOT DOOOOOOOOOOOOT!
Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
Swung by Seraphim whose foot-falls 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 playoff chances;
Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe and forget this lost playoff chance!”
Quoth the Yeti “WOFORD MUMZY TAKE MY DOOT DOOT.”
“Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil!—prophet still, if monster or devil!—
Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,
Desolate yet all undaunted, on this cold land enchanted—
On this country by Horror haunted—tell me truly, I implore—
Is there—is there balm in Gilead?—tell me—tell me, I implore!”
Quoth the Yeti “WOFORD MUMZY TAKE MY DOOT DOOT.”
“Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil!—prophet still, if monster 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 playoff chances—
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name playoff chances.”
Quoth the Yeti “WOFORD MUMZY TAKE MY DOOT DOOT.”
“Be that word our sign of parting, monster or fiend!” I shrieked, upstarting—
“Get thee back into the tempest and the Night’s Plutonian shore!
Leave no white hair as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!
Leave my loneliness unbroken!—quit the bust above my door!
Take thy noises from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!”
Quoth the Yeti “DOOOOOOOOOOOOT.”
And the Yeti, 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 lamp-light o’er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
Shall be lifted—nevermore!
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore—
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
“’Tis some pitiful opponent” I muttered, “tapping at my playoff chances—
Only this and nothing more.”
Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December;
And each separate player retirement wrought its ghost upon the floor.
Eagerly I wished the morrow;—vainly I had sought to borrow
From my TPE surcease of sorrow—sorrow for the lost Ultimus—
For the rare and radiant trophy whom the angels name Ultimus —
Nameless here for evermore.
And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each blowout win
Thrilled me—filled me with fantastic triumph never felt before;
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating
“’Tis some pitiful opponent entreating entrance at my playoff chances—
Some late visitor entreating entrance at my playoff chances;—
This it is 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 winning, and so gently you came rapping,
And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my playoff chances,
That I scarce was sure I beat you”—here I opened wide the playoff;—
Darkness there and nothing more.
Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no team 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, “Ultimus?”
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, “Ultimus?”—
Merely this and nothing more.
Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,
Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.
“Surely,” said I, “surely that is something at my playoff chances;
Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore—
Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore;—
’Tis the Yeti and nothing more!”
Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,
In there stepped a stately fat Yeti 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 playoff chances—
Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my playoff chances—
Perched, and sat, and nothing more.
Then this white fat Yeti beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,
“Though thy fur be shorn and shaven, thou,” I said, “art sure no craven,
Ghastly grim and ancient Yeti wandering from the Rocky Mountains—
Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night’s Plutonian shore!”
Quoth the Yeti “WOFORD MUMZY TAKE MY DOOT DOOT.”
Much I marvelled this ungainly weird specimen we don’t know about 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 Yeti above his playoff chances—
Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his playoff chances,
With such name as “WOFORD MUMZY TAKE MY DOOT DOOT.”
But the Yeti, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only
Those six words, as if his soul in those six words he did outpour.
Nothing farther then he uttered—not a hair then he fluttered—
Till I scarcely more than muttered “Other friends have made the playoffs before—
On the morrow he will leave me, as my Hopes have failed me before.”
Then the bird said “WOFORD MUMZY TAKE MY DOOT DOOT.”
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 ‘DOOT DOOOOOOOT - WOFORD MUMZY TAKE MY DOOT DOOT’.”
But the Yeti still beguiling all my fancy into smiling,
Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of Yeti, and bust and door;
Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking
Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous monster of yore—
What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous monster of yore
Meant in croaking “WOFORD MUMZY TAKE MY DOOT DOOT.”
This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
To the creature whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom’s core;
This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining
On the cushion’s velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o’er,
But whose velvet-violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o’er,
She shall press, ah, DOOT DOOOOOOOOOOOOT!
Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
Swung by Seraphim whose foot-falls 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 playoff chances;
Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe and forget this lost playoff chance!”
Quoth the Yeti “WOFORD MUMZY TAKE MY DOOT DOOT.”
“Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil!—prophet still, if monster or devil!—
Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,
Desolate yet all undaunted, on this cold land enchanted—
On this country by Horror haunted—tell me truly, I implore—
Is there—is there balm in Gilead?—tell me—tell me, I implore!”
Quoth the Yeti “WOFORD MUMZY TAKE MY DOOT DOOT.”
“Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil!—prophet still, if monster 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 playoff chances—
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name playoff chances.”
Quoth the Yeti “WOFORD MUMZY TAKE MY DOOT DOOT.”
“Be that word our sign of parting, monster or fiend!” I shrieked, upstarting—
“Get thee back into the tempest and the Night’s Plutonian shore!
Leave no white hair as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!
Leave my loneliness unbroken!—quit the bust above my door!
Take thy noises from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!”
Quoth the Yeti “DOOOOOOOOOOOOT.”
And the Yeti, 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 lamp-light o’er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
Shall be lifted—nevermore!
retired
![[Image: LPLD95s.gif]](https://i.imgur.com/LPLD95s.gif)
