It's time to lay some culture on you cunts

It's time to lay some culture on you cunts.

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Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore—

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While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.

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“’Tis some visitor,” I muttered, “tapping at my chamber door—
Only this and nothing more.”

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Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December;
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.

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Eagerly I wished the morrow;—vainly I had sought to borrow
From my books surcease of sorrow—sorrow for the lost Lenore—

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For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore—
Nameless here for evermore.

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And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each purple curtain
Thrilled me—filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;

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So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating
“’Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door—

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Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door;—
This it is and nothing more.”

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