Too awesome to not continue.
Once sunk in a mountain dreary, I swing my pick both weak and weary
Over a mason who engraves upon the floor
While I mined, booze levels lacking, suddenly there came a churning
As of some great beast moving slowly, slowly beneath the cavern floor
'Tis my sobriety,' I muttered, 'churning my thoughts under the floor -
Only this and nothing more.'
Ah, distinctly I remember, it was the close of last Timber,
And the leaves of dying autumn brought my steps to the front door
Of a fortress monumental. I'd heard stories, accidental,
From my fellows who'd returned, speaking tales they did deplore,
"'Tis a graveyard," they did mutter, "only stories we deplore;
Disaster there forevermore."
And the silken webbed rustling of the loinpants,
thrilled me - filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
So that now, to still the beating of my pick, I stood repeating
"'Tis my sobriety entreating entrance at my mind's door -
Some sobriety entreating entrance on my mind's door -
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 sober, and so gently you came over,
And so faintly you came rapping, rapping at my fortress floor,
That I scarce was sure I heard you' - here I opened wide the hatch;
darkness there: a large mismatch.