Once upon a noonday dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,Over many a quaint and curious webpage of forgotten lore - There I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,As of some one gently rapping, rapping at on my boss’s door“’Tis some visitor, “I muttered, “tapping at my boss’s door -
Only this and nothing more.”
Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December,And each passing feature wrought its ghost upon the floor.Eagerly I wished the morrow; - vainly I had sought to borrowFrom the Trades surcease of sorrow – sorrow from this dreadful bore - For that rare and radiant anything that could break this dreadful bore
- Nameless here for evermore.
Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a sigh and mutter,In there shuffled a lowly Intern from the offices next door;Not the least obeisance made he; not an instant stopped or stayed he;But with mien of star or leading lady, leaned against my boss’s door.Leaned against a bust of Goldwyn just above my boss’s door
- Leaned, and simpered, and nothing more.
Then this unpaid student beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance he wore,“Though thy shirt be wrecked and wrinkled, thou,” I said “art sure no craven,Ghastly grim and clueless Intern wandering from the offices next door - Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night’s Plutonian shore!”
Quoth the Intern, “Nevermore.”
But the Intern still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling,Straight I wheeled an orthopedic chair in front of kid and bust and door;
Then, upon the vinyl sinking, I betook myself to linking Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this lowly student of films of yore - What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, student from the office next door.
Meant in croaking, “Nevermore.”
This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressingTo the kid whose lazy eyes now burned into my bosom’s core;This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining On the cushion’s vinyl lining that the florescent-light gloated o’er
But whose sweaty vinyl lining the florescent-lights gloated o’er,
“My boredom shall press, ah, nevermore!”
Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censerSwung by bosses whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor.“Wretch,” I cried, “My employer has lent thee – by an email he hathsent thee!Respite – respite and nepenthe from my abysmal bore;What oh what the hell is nepenthe?” I did then have cause to roar.
Quoth the Intern, “Nevermore.”
“Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil! – prophet still, if boss or devil!Whether Tempter sent, or whether agency tossed thee here ashore,Desolate yet all undaunted, in this deserted office granted - On my desk by Horror haunted – tell me truly, I implore - Is there – is there anything for me to do? Tell me – tell me, I implore!”
Quoth the Intern, “Nevermore!”
And the Intern, never working, still is sitting, still is smirkingOn the pallid bust of Goldwyn just beside my boss’s door;And his eyes have all the seeming of an executive’s that’s Scheming,And the florescent-light on him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;And in my boredom I lie there simpering, whimpering on the floor
It shall be lifted – Nevermore!