The Heavy

[Wamp Rats]

As a result of mass boredom, did the best I could.

There is no TL;DR version. A remake of the classic short story, the raven


Once upon a stock-map dreary, while I spy-checked weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore,
While I nodded, nearly fapping, suddenly there came a sapping,
As of some spy gently sapping, sapping at my dustbowl door.
`'Tis some noob,' I muttered, `sapping at my dustbowl door -
Only this, and nothing more.'

Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December,
And each separate dying member wrought its rag-doll upon the floor.
Eagerly I wished the morrow; - vainly I had sought to borrow
From my books surcease of sorrow - sorrow for the lost break-floor -
For the rare and radiant map whom the angels named break-floor-
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 spy entreating entrance at my dustbowl door -
Some late spy entreating entrance at my dustbowl 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 fapping, and so gently you came sapping,
And so faintly you came sapping, sapping 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 darkness gave no token,
And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, `breakfloor!'
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, `breakfloor!'
Merely this and nothing more.

Back into the dustbowl turning, all my soul within me burning,
Soon again I heard a sapping 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 heavy of the saintly days of breakfloor.
Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;
But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my dustbowl door -
Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my dustbowl door -
Perched, and sat, and nothing more.

Then this large man 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 large and wideset heavy wandering from the map breakfloor-
Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore!'
Quoth the heavy, `Cry some more.'

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 heavy above his dustbowl door -
Man or beast above the sculptured bust above his dustbowl door,
With such name as `Cry some more.'

But the heavy, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only,
Those few words, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.
Nothing further then he uttered - not a feather then he fluttered -
Till I scarcely more than muttered `Other friends have came before -
On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have gone before.'
Then the heavy said, `Cry some more.'

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 "Cry, Cry some more."'

But the heavy still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling,
Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of man and bust and door;
Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking
Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous russian of yore -
What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous man of yore
Meant in croaking `Cry some more.'

This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
To the man 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,
It shall press, ah, cry some more!

Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
Swung by Seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor.
`Fatty,' I cried, `thy lady hath lent thee - by the announcer she has sent thee
Respite - respite and nepenthe from thy memories of breakfloor!
Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe, and forget this lost breakfloor!'
Quoth the heavy, ’Cry some more.'

`Fat man!' said I, `thing of evil! - prophet still, if russki or devil! -
Whether tempter sent, or whether hydro 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 heavy, ‘Cry some more.'

`Fat man!' said I, `thing of evil! - prophet still, if russki or devil!
By that Heaven that bends above us - by that Announcer we both adore -
Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,
It shall clasp a sainted map whom the angels named breakfloor -
Clasp a rare and radiant map, whom the angels named breakfloor?'
Quoth the heavy, `Cry some more.'

`Be that word our sign of parting, man or fiend!' I shrieked upstarting -
`Get thee back into the hydro and the Night's Plutonian shore!
Leave no sandvich as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!
Leave my loneliness unbroken! - quit the bust above my door!
Take thy fists from out my heart, and take thy fat from off my door!'
Quoth the heavy, `Cry some more.'

And the heavy, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my dustbowl 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 – Cry some more!

[MrKerplunkers]

I'm gonna call this right now and say if we ever lose the tf2 servers, cC will become a guild of creative writers. Just saying.

Also, cool poem broseph, gave me a chuckle.

[Dep. Redundency Dep.]

I love you.