"Kinda Wild and Free": the Good Little Bad Girl in '60s pop music

This is one of those posts that has been kicking around in my mind forever. There is a certain genre of vintage pop that can only be described as "class distinction morality tales". Songs like Down in the Boondocks and Dawn ("go away, I'm no good for you")  are nothing but self-pitying screams from "poor boys" who can never be good enough (economically? Socially?) for the wispy, likely virginal maidens they yearn for.

Then there's that other kind of girl.

Not on a pedestal. She don't have no money, her clothes are kind of funny, her hair is kind of wild and free. . . You know the kind. 

Windy. Eleanor. Rosemary. Sloopy. And those others, literally nameless, the "rag doll" and the "brown-eyed girl", immortalized in song and trapped forever in the fiery amber of 1960s youth.

There's something sweetly loose about these girls, the swingin' hair and slightly raggy, thrift-shoppy clothes, a free spirit who might be a little more than free with her sexual favors. It's there, not spelled out, but implied. In some ways this is only a celebration of non-conformity and breaking free from the dreadful shackles of convention. It's as if these guys (whoever they are - there must have been a lot of them) can only find personal freedom through these barefoot waifs who wade right into the public fountain and don't mind getting their (long, swingin') hair wet.

I can't possibly get into all the lyrics of these things - you can play them if you want! But there are themes which can be gleaned from taking a closer look at them.

Windy (The Association)

Who's trippin' down the streets of the city, smilin' at everybody she sees? Everyone knows it's Windy. It's a strange name, and I wonder if she was actually called Wendy in the first draft. This is the quintessential free-spirited-girl anthem, and it's fairly unremarkable except for a couple of truly memorable lines: "And Windy has stormy eyes/That flash at the sound of lies." This is startling, and reveals the core of morality in this raggedy girl who cannot stand phoniness and posing. Windy is going to be a bit of a challenge to anyone who can't see past her out-at-the-knees jeans and split ends. She'll find you out, catch you out, even as she reaches out to capture the moment. 

Eleanor (The Turtles)

This is kind of a strange one: "Eleanor, gee I think you're swell, and you really do me well, you're my pride and joy, ET CETERA". This is the ultimate blow-off of someone you care about: "I love you, etc. etc." - but it's also uniquely '60s, that offhandedness which is a thin disguise for a profound yearning to be captivated and captured by a free-spirited girl. The title of the movie Love, Actually seems to borrow from this sentiment. 

Love Grows (Where my Rosemary Goes)

"She ain't got no money, her clothes are kinda funny, her hair is kinda wild and free. . . " Oh yeah. You might not take this girl home to meet your mother, but you'd take her to the park, maybe even in the dark, smoke up, and get down to basics. "She talks kinda lazy, people say she's crazy, and her life's a mystery" - a common element among these characters, later immortalized in John Lennon's magnificent line: "It's a love that has no past." Like a lot of these girls (and by the way, they ARE girls, not women), there is an element of magic power and even mysticism about them: Rosemary  "really has a magical spell/And it's workin' so well" - that he can't get away.

Hang On Sloopy (The McCoys)

This is the true nitty-gritty, a real wrong-side-of-the-tracks scenario in which Sloopy lives in a very bad part of town, and "everybody, yeah, tries to put my Sloopy down". Sloopy reminds me a bit of "sloppy", of course, but a sloop is also a boat, and thus a symbol of freedom (remember the Beach Boys' sublime Sloop John B?). For some reason, in picturing Sloopy, I think of a girl in a torn grey sweatshirt hanging off one shoulder, and jeans so tight they look painted on. Long black hair and thick Cleopatra eyeliner, like very early Cher. 

The most provocative line, "Sloopy, I don't care what your Daddy do" makes you wonder: just how bad IS he, anyway? A thief, a pimp, a drug dealer, or just the local rag-and-bone man doing a dirty low-status job because somebody has to do it? The repeated chorus of "hang on, Sloopy/Sloopy, hang on" is a strange one - does he mean "hang on to your self-worth", or what? A loose girl hanging on - to what, we can never be sure. 

Along Comes Mary (The Association)

This one has a VERY interesting lyric, which I will actually reproduce here because to me, it has elements of Mariology (the study of apparitions of the Virgin Mary). The tune is basically one note, which is intriguing as the lyrics tumble over each other in one long blurt. But the words are unusually complex, a long skein of poetry with a subtext that is almost disturbing. This song was quoted in one of Leonard Bernstein's Young People's Concerts as an example of the Dorian Mode, though I doubt if The Association was thinking in those terms when they wrote it. You know you are NOT in typical pop-music-land when you hear lines like these: 

And does she want to see the stains, the dead remains of all the pains she left the night before

Or will their waking eyes reflect the lies, and make them
Realize their urgent cry for sight no more

Every time I think that I'm the only one who's lonely
Someone calls on me
And every now and then I spend my time in rhyme and verse
And curse those faults in me

And then along comes Mary
And does she want to give me kicks, and be my steady chick
And give me pick of memories
Or maybe rather gather tales of all the fails and tribulations
No one ever sees

When we met I was sure out to lunch
Now my empty cup tastes as sweet as the punch

When vague desire is the fire in the eyes of chicks
Whose sickness is the games they play
And when the masquerade is played and neighbor folks make jokes
As who is most to blame today

And then along comes Mary
And does she want to set them free, and let them see reality
From where she got her name
And will they struggle much when told that such a tender touch as hers
Will make them not the same

When we met I was sure out to lunch
Now my empty cup tastes as sweet as the punch

And when the morning of the warning's passed, the gassed
And flaccid kids are flung across the stars
The psychodramas and the traumas gone
The songs are left unsung and hung upon the scars

And then along comes Mary
And does she want to see the stains, the dead remains of all the pains
She left the night before
Or will their waking eyes reflect the lies, and make them
Realize their urgent cry for sight no more

When we met I was sure out to lunch
Now my empty cup tastes as sweet as the punch 

Brown-eyed Girl (Van Morrison)

This one is literally about "makin' love in the green grass/Behind the stadium," which doesn't get much more nitty-gritty than that. It's all about having sex on the ground, outdoors, in public. The brown-eyed girl automatically has connotations of a girl who ISN'T blue-eyed/blonde (Aryan? Just kidding) - in fact, this may even be a way to racialize her in a subtle way, or paint her as a little exotic. Hey where did we go, days when the rains came? Down in the hollow, playin' a new game. Laughin' and a-runnin', skippin' and a-jumpin'. . . You know the rest. 

Rag Doll (Frankie Valli and the Four Seasons)

We're not even pretending that this girl is respectable. She's nicknamed "Hand-me-down" by the mean, judgemental folks in town, and is likely called much worse things. "Such a pretty face," Frankie Valli croons in that supernatural falsetto voice of his, "should be dressed in lace". This song has elements of fairy tale about it, portraying a sort of hidden worth that transcends rags and tatters, an inner purity and nobility which. . . well, maybe not. Cinderella this girl ain't, in fact she sounds kind of iffy to me. 


The rest of the town sees her as "easy", but Frankie insists she's so much more than that, and does not even want to change anything about her: "I love you just the way you are." But the last verse takes a pretty dark turn: "I'd change her sad rags into glad rags if I could/My folks won't let me 'cause they say that she's no good." It doesn't get much more graphic than that.

Baby Don't Go (Sonny and Cher)

This is one of my all-time-favorite songs by a vastly underrated pop duo, Sonny and Cher. Sonny wrote most of their hits, including Gypsies, Tramps and Thieves, Little Man, Bang-Bang, and A Cowboy's Work is Never Done - all sharply witty, even edgy songs with smarter lyrics than people seem to realize. He's just dumb old Sonny Bono, isn't he? But without Sonny, there never would have been a Cher. 

He created her, Pygmalion-like, and she even acknowledged the fact long after they parted. She practically climbed up on his funeral pyre when he died skiing into a tree, and completely hijacked the funeral with her sobbing histrionics, embarrassing his widow who was sitting right there watching the production. At any rate, this time there's a twist to it and the song is from the girl's perspective, a teenage girl who has been traumatized by unspoken abuse. She comes across as an orphaned waif who "never had a mother" and hardly knew her Dad, and (of course) buys her rags and tatters at the second-hand store. 

The plaintive chorus "baby, don't go" seems to come from a phantom lover in response to her truly poignant and soul-baring soliloquy. It's as if she must spell out or even insist that "you're the only boy I've had" to try to defend her tattered reputation. The tight chords in the chorus with their astringent dissonance have the plaintive pull of a train whistle in the distance, the train she's about to catch as she leaves that intolerable place, that town without pity (to quote another classic). "When I get to the city/My tears will all be dried/My eyes will look so pretty/No one's gonna know I cried." Those are great lines, along with her promise to "be a lady some day". 

So what IS the scenario here? She has to go away - where, and why? To have an abortion? To evade a vagrancy charge? To get away from an abusive stepdad, or maybe just to prove that the town is wrong about her? It's never spelled out, but like Sloopy and Rag Doll, she has been surrounded by judgement and disapproval all her life just for being who she is, and must escape, must run for her life.

But the melancholy half-promise to that phantom lover adds another level of poignancy: "Maybe I'll be back some day." The implication is that she can't return until she has made herself worthy. I love this particular video from a '60s pop music show in which the dancers, all doing the jerk and the shing-a-ling, are photographed in a kind of kaleidoscope effect, while Cher, eyes rimmed in black Cleopatra kohl, sings this knockout song with a kind of expressionless deadpan. But my oh my, how Cher could sing back then, before she ruined her voice with that godawful forced-sounding vibrato. She sang with warmth, clarity and passion. As with the best poetry, so much is left unsaid, and we must fill in the blanks with our own yearnings. 

SPECIAL BONUS VIDEO! This is the clip with Leonard Bernstein playing an excerpt from Along Comes Mary, a song he was said to have admired for its dynamic chord structure and complex lyrics. Sweet as the punch!

Princess Charlotte of Prussia (1880s)

Princess Charlotte of Prussia, Duchess of Saxe Meiningen

"It's Baxter!" The Meow Mix cat crashes the wedding

I believe this is ALL the Baxter commercials for Meow Mix. If you know of any others, PLEASE let me know! Surely Baxter was the ultimate in feline advertisement, outmeowing Morris (though he had more staying power, I think). The other two are also Meow Mix ads at their finest: the infamous Close Encounters of the Meow Kind, and the even-more-infamous Disco Kitties. I can never get enough of these, and it's the first time I've had them all in one place!

GEE, ANTHONY FAUCI! - A Randy Rainbow Song Parody

Ohhh, OK. . . I know I just finished dissing the satirists, but I stumbled on this guy and it was just too excruciatingly GOOD not to share. The thing is, though it is satire, the chorus is "We're in hell, we're in hell. . ." - which they certainly are. His lyrics are amazing, and I love how he calls Trump "gurl". 

So how DO we get through all this shit?

I find myself posting outrageous Trump stories (most of them connected directly to a jaw-dropping denial that COVID-19 even exists), then feeling bad about just passing all that negative energy along. But there are times I honestly do not know what else to do.

I keep vowing I'll learn to ignore all this, but if you're a sentient being who cares at all about the world, you can't just tune it all out. You can't "process" it, as the expression goes, because nobody wants to swallow toxic shit. It just runneth over, kind of, and though I do try to deal with one day at a time, and though PART of today was really good (sandhill cranes on Burnaby Lake, a blackbird eating out of my hand), my day can take a hairpin turn towards incredulous dismay and even depression. And I keep saying to myself, my God, why are you getting depressed about THIS? 

I have no control over it, except, as the trite saying goes, "my attitude towards it". So am I supposed to be optimistic, neutral, or what? I don't know how to feel about it. I am not at all surprised liquor consumption is through the roof now, especially with people who do not usually drink heavily. I stopped drinking in 1990 (darn it all), so that rather self-defeating avenue is closed to me. I want to stop posting Trump stories, but I feel like I have to share them to take some of the crushing load off. I try to not post long blurts, and at least part of today was great, but one thing does not cancel out another. The evening news is now so breathtakingly grotesque that I sometimes flee the room halfway through. 

We cannot escape the primitive workings of the reptilian brain which is supposedly in charge of the free world. I also realize with dismay how heavily satirized and sent up Trump has been for more than four years, and how it has done nothing at all to change an astonishingly dangerous situation. In fact, satire and laughter is a way to escape and make things LESS awful. Humor is a distancing tool and a survival mechanism, but it's also a way to put unpleasant things away from you. I always used to think: yes, Alec Baldwin is brilliant in this role, but it just ain't funny, folks. It's making a completely unacceptable situation palatable through the endorphin-burst of a good laugh. Not that much different from taking a few stiff shots.

I have bipolar disorder and have started writing about it more lately, thinking, well, what have I got to lose? I'm not protecting anything, and (as the kid in the playground said long ago) nobody likes me anyway. But if this revelation affects how people feel about me, either way, well, that's not why I'm doing it. Right now, I'm doing it because some days, like today, I am trying to hang on to a rope bare-handed that is coated in a particularly deadly, slick oil, and though my desperate hand-over-hand is now so fast it's a blur, I feel I'm losing ground a lot of the time because there is nothing but an abyss below me. At present, I have NO medical support whatsoever, NO avenue for counselling, and basically have to keep my problems to myself. So the hackneyed exhortation to "reach out for help" isn't very helpful right now, as it doesn't seem to apply to me.

Will I get through this? I really don't know. Everyone is doing an awful lot of whistling in the dark - again, as a survival mechanism, and as a way to put the unpleasantness away from us so we can get on with some kind of a day. I have never known the world to have this many overwhelming problems on this scale, all at once, and even with the best President in the world, things would still be harrowing, a long and heavy grind for everyone, and downright catastrophic for some.

I tell myself: OK then, I'm a Canadian, I might have this mental condition but I'm not quite hospital material (yet!), my husband and I are well and have a roof over our heads, our kids are employed and doing well and so are THEIR kids. I tell myself all this, many, many times a day, but the dismay still pours over me and creeps into every crevice like a thick and very toxic fog. 

So. . . I keep getting up in the morning like everyone else, with no safety net medically or mentally (and it's ironic that during my long years of stability, I had more "help" than I ever needed, even if it was the wrong kind). Now there's just nothing, and many times a day I say, OK then, I'm being thrown back on my own resources, and might this not be a test of my ability to - to - oh fuck, I give up! It's not like that at all. I want my Mum, and even when she was alive she was indifferent to me, to the point that I was not even mentioned in her obituary, a fact which most people find hard to believe. But I want SOMEBODY'S Mum, and I am tired of trying to reflexively "mother myself" when I just don't have anything left in me to nurture anyone at all. 

Trump's nonsensical self-justifying drivel: "What the f*ck is he talking about?"

PIERS MORGAN: President Trump's painfully deluded train-wreck HBO interview proved he hasn't just lost control of the coronavirus – he's lost control of reality

By Piers Morgan for MailOnline

Published: 07:33 EDT, 4 August 2020 | Updated: 11:26 EDT, 4 August 2020

In every great American crisis, there is a moment where the whole world can see the true character of a President.

For George W. Bush it came when he was photographed staring down from the luxurious comfort of Air Force One on the wreckage wrought by Hurricane Katrina, after his government's woefully inadequate federal response. The picture made him look detached and uncaring, and worst of all, a weak and ineffectual leader. He never recovered from it.

For Bill Clinton, it came with his infamous 'I did not have sexual relations with that woman, Ms Lewinsky' declaration. When it turned out he had indeed had multiple sexual relations with that woman, his reputation was badly damaged.

Conversely, for John F. Kennedy, you could point to his rousing 1962 speech challenging America to go to the moon, instilling in Americans a spirit of unlimited optimism, as the moment when he sparked a deep abiding popularity that lasts to this day.

Similarly, for Ronald Reagan, his audacious 'Mr Gorbachev, tear down this wall!' command at Berlin's Brandenburg Gate to the leader of the Soviet Union, cemented his place in history.

For President Donald J. Trump, there have been many grim moments during his catastrophic handling of the coronavirus pandemic that may end up defining his presidency.

For President Donald J. Trump, there have been many grim moments during his catastrophic handling of the coronavirus pandemic that may end up defining his presidency. 

During an extraordinary, toe-curling HBO interview with AXIOS's Jonathan Swan (right), President Trump exposed just why the US has become a horrifyingly bad template for how NOT to combat Covid-19.

But last night, during an extraordinary, toe-curling HBO interview with AXIOS's Jonathan Swan, he exposed just why the US has become a horrifyingly bad template for how NOT to combat Covid-19.

In an attempt to defend his indefensible record, and specifically why the US has one of the worst death rates in the world, Trump suddenly produced a collection of graphics.

'Look at some of these charts,' he said. 'This one, right here, the United States is lowest…in numerous categories…lower than the world.'

'In what?' said an incredulous Swan.

'Take a look,' said Trump, handing the chart over.

Swan, a very good and well-prepared journalist, studied the chart quickly and forensically.

'Oh, you're doing death as a proportion of cases,' he replied. 'I'm talking about death as a proportion of population.'

'Well… well…' Trump stammered.

'That's where the US is really bad,' persisted Swan, 'much worse than South Korea, Germany etc.'

'You can't do that!' exclaimed Trump.

'Why can't I do that?' asked Swan, looking understandably confused.

'You have to go by the cases,' said Trump. 'We're last, meaning we're first!'

It was a stunning exchange.

  

George W. Bush it came was photographed staring down from the luxurious comfort of Air Force One on the wreckage wrought by Hurricane Katrina, after his government's woefully inadequate federal response.

Bill Clinton, infamously said: 'I did not have sexual relations with that woman, Ms Lewinsky'. He is pictured at his impeachment.

Here was the President of the United States telling a journalist that he couldn't mention America's shocking coronavirus death toll because all that matters is not how many people have died, but how many people have been tested.

'You know there are those that say you can test too much,' Trump blathered. 'You do know that?'

Swan didn't know that, because nobody other than Trump has said that.

'Who says that?' Swan asked.

'Oh, just read the manuals,' Trump retorted. 'Read the books.'

'Manuals?' Swan pressed. 'What manuals?'

'Read the books, read the books,' Trump repeated.

Of course, there are no manuals, or books, that say you can do too much coronavirus testing.

Obviously, as any scientist will attest, you can never do enough testing. It's the only way to get on top of this virus until there's a vaccine.

What Trump actually means is that he wishes America did less testing so they didn't have so many cases because it makes HIM look bad.

That's why he doesn't want to talk about America's appalling death toll because, again, it makes HIM look bad.

'A thousand people are dying a day,' Swan told him.

'They are dying,' replied Trump. 'It's true. It is what it is.'

Wow.

'It is what it is' - that was the President's staggering response to the ongoing horrific slaughter of Americans by a deadly virus.

No empathy, no apology, no expression of sorrow.

Just a heartless, dismissive shrug.

The problem for Trump in this crisis is that the stats don't lie like he does.

When Swan pointed out that South Korea has a population of 51 million people but has only suffered 300 coronavirus deaths, Trump inferred, with zero evidence, that the statistics were fake news.

It's his default response to any facts he doesn't like, but now he is being exposed by the cold, hard reality of data-backed truth.

The World Health Organisation reports today there have been 18,100,204 confirmed cases of coronavirus in the world, and 690,257 deaths.

Of these, America has had 4,629,459 cases, which is 25% of the global total, and 154,226 deaths which is 22% of the global total.

Yet it has just 4.2% of the world's population.

So whichever way you look at the numbers, the United States is doing catastrophically badly.

When Swan told Trump that up to 1,000 Americans were dying everyday, the president said: 'It's true. It is what it is.' Pictured: Bodies are transferred to a temporary morgue in Brooklyn during the height of the pandemic.

Trump knows it, everyone knows it.

But he also knows if he admits it, it may cost him the election in November.

So, he's now reduced to lying, obfuscating, deflecting, and anything else he can think of to avoid being held accountable for what has happened on his watch.

Last night, Americans saw their President deny the incontrovertible.

They saw him pretend he's got coronavirus under control when he's completely lost control.

And they saw him challenged relentlessly on all this bullsh*t by a top-class journalist determined not to let him off the hook.

It made for electrifying but very unedifying viewing, combining the detached uncaring conduct of George W. Bush during the Katrina crisis with Bill Clinton's cynical lying about Monica Lewinsky.

There were many other awful moments during the interview, including Trump once again offering weirdly uncritical support to accused child sex trafficker Ghislaine Maxwell, refusing to call the late civil rights campaigning legend Congressman John Lewis, 'impressive' because Lewis hadn't gone to his inauguration, and stoking self-serving fears of election night mail voting fraud.

But it was his meandering disingenuous nonsense about coronavirus that swiftly went viral around the world.

Some people on social media even assumed it must be a comedy sketch given how preposterous it appeared and the fact it was appearing on a network famed for shows like Veep and Succession.

This, sadly, was very real.

I didn't laugh.

Instead, I cringed, I despaired, and then I felt angry.

America is being overrun by coronavirus because its narcissistic President has put his personal ego before doing his job – from spewing his dangerous 'cure' theories to trashing his top medical experts if they dare to speak the truth and boasting inanely about his covid news conference TV ratings.

Trump's made the crisis all about him, not the American people.

As a result, the American people are dying in massive numbers all over the country.

Jonathan Swan's constantly bemused face last night perfectly summed up what we were all thinking as the President brandished his meaningless self-serving charts and spouted his nonsensical self-justifying drivel: what the f*ck is he talking about?

The lost Lenore

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 visitor,” I muttered, “tapping at my chamber door

            Only this and nothing more.”

    Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December;

And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.

    Eagerly I wished the morrow;—vainly I had sought to borrow

    From my books surcease of sorrow—sorrow for the lost Lenore—

For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore—

            Nameless here for evermore.

    And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each purple curtain

Thrilled me—filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;

    So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating

    “’Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door

Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber 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 napping, and so gently you came rapping,

    And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,

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

            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;

    But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token,

    And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, “Lenore?”

This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, “Lenore!”—

            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 window lattice;

      Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore—

Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore;—

            ’Tis the wind and nothing more!”

    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;

    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—

Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door—

            Perched, and sat, and nothing more.

Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,

By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,

“Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou,” I said, “art sure no craven,

Ghastly grim and ancient Raven wandering from the Nightly shore—

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

            Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”

    Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl 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 bird above his chamber door—

Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door,

            With such name as “Nevermore.”

    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.

    Nothing farther then he uttered—not a feather then he fluttered—

    Till I scarcely more than muttered “Other friends have flown before—

On the morrow he will leave me, as my Hopes have flown before.”

            Then the bird said “Nevermore.”

    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 ‘Never—nevermore’.”

    But the Raven still beguiling all my fancy into smiling,

Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird, and bust and door;

    Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking

    Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore—

What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore

            Meant in croaking “Nevermore.”

    This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing

To the fowl 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, nevermore!

    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 Lenore;

Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe and forget this lost Lenore!”

            Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”

    “Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil!—prophet still, if bird or devil!—

Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,

    Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted—

    On this home by Horror haunted—tell me truly, I implore—

Is there—is there balm in Gilead?—tell me—tell me, I implore!”

            Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”

    “Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil!—prophet still, if bird 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 Lenore—

Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore.”

            Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”

    “Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!” I shrieked, upstarting—

“Get thee back into the tempest and the Night’s Plutonian shore!

    Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!

    Leave my loneliness unbroken!—quit the bust above my door!

Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!”

            Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”

    And the Raven, 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!