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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Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
“Sir,” said I, “or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;

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But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,
And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,

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That I scarce was sure I heard you”—here I opened wide the door;—

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Darkness there and nothing more.

Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before;

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But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token,
And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, “Lenore?”

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This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, “Lenore!”—
Merely this and nothing more.

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Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,
Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.

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“Surely,” said I, “surely that is something at my window lattice;
Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore—

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Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore;—
’Tis the wind and nothing more!”

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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;

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Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;
But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door—

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Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door—
Perched, and sat, and nothing more.

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Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,

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“Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou,” I said, “art sure no craven,
Ghastly grim and ancient Raven wandering from the Nightly shore—

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Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night’s Plutonian shore!”

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Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”

Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,
Though its answer little meaning—little relevancy bore;

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For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door—

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Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door,
With such name as “Nevermore.”

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But the Raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only
That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.

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Nothing farther then he uttered—not a feather then he fluttered—
Till I scarcely more than muttered “Other friends have flown before—

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On the morrow he will leave me, as my Hopes have flown before.”
Then the bird said “Nevermore.”

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Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
“Doubtless,” said I, “what it utters is its only stock and store

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