[Verse 1] Startled still, I catch my breath and reach for sense, Call it learned mimicry, a parrot's thin defense— "Doubtless, said I, what it utters is its only stock and store," His whole supply, one borrowed word, and nothing left in store. I dream up a master drowning, driven half insane, His luck a leaking vessel that never finds the shore again, "Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster Followed fast and followed faster"—till that word was all he'd pour. [Chorus] Stock and store, his whole supply, One syllable's the reason why. Dirges—funeral songs—for a love that's gone, Burden, the refrain that just drags on, Nevermore, nevermore, the echo of his ruin— I'm linking fancy unto fancy, chasing what the bird is doing. [Verse 2] Still I'm smiling, calling logic to the chair, "Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird and bust and door," Betook myself—just set my mind to sit and stare, Sinking into velvet, settling in for something more. Divining, leaning forward, treating it all like a game, But reason is a thin wick and the shadows feel the same, What started as a study turns to something with no name. [Chorus] Stock and store, his whole supply, One syllable's the reason why. Dirges—funeral songs—for a love that's gone, Burden, the refrain that just drags on, Nevermore, nevermore, the echo of his ruin— I'm linking fancy unto fancy, chasing what the bird is doing. [Bridge] Grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt— hear the hard g's strut and taunt, each one a little croak I can't outrun, ominous—a threat, a sign of doom undone. "What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt and ominous bird of yore Meant in croaking Nevermore"— [Verse 3] Once he seemed just stately, dark and almost proud, now my own tongue sharpens, calling names out loud, from a measured visitor to a haunting I can't ignore, the man who reasoned calmly isn't the man brooding anymore. Poe is stitching his own echo into every verse I sing, the master's song of never is the poet's own same thing. [Chorus] Stock and store, his whole supply, One syllable's the reason why. Dirges—funeral songs—for a love that's gone, Burden, the refrain that just drags on, Nevermore, nevermore, the echo of his ruin— I'm linking fancy unto fancy, chasing what the bird is doing.
← Stanzas 9–10: Other Friends Have Flown Before | Stanzas 13–14: Respite and Nepenthe →