Once upon a midnight weary, As I stumbled weak and beery, There came a swilling, spilling at my feet, While I nodded, nearly napping, Suddenly there came a hint of crapping, Crapping in my chamber pot.
Tis some visitor, I muttered, crapping in my chamber pot...only this and nothing more.

Ah ! distinctly , I remember it was in the bleak December,.. or maybe July, As each separate unbuttoned fly wrought its ghost upon that pot. Eagerly, I wished for a 'jar', vainly I had sought to borrow, From my bottles, a case of sorrow, ..sorrow for the lost Carling.
For the rare and radiant Darling, whom the barmen called Carling, Nameless here forevermore.

And the sicken, sad uncertain, rustling of each brown bottle, Thrilled me, filled me with fantastic (hic) terror, never felt before, So that now to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating every fart, Tis some visitor, still crapping in my chamber pot, Some late visitor crapping in my chamber pot, This it is and nothing (hic) more.

Presently my soul grew stronger, hesitating then no longer, Shag it! I said, or Madman, Truly your not forgiven I emplore, But the fact is I was napping and you came so gently crapping, And faintly you came crapping, crapping in my chamber pot.

That I scarce was sure I heard you..here I opened wide the door, Emptiness there and nothing more. Deep into that darkness peering , long I stood there wondering, fearing Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortals, Ever dared to dream before.

But the silence was unbroken and the swillness gave no token, And the only word there spoken was the whispered word ' Carling'. This I whispered and an echo murmured back the word 'Carling', Merely this and nothing more.

Back into the room turning, all my soul within me burning, Soon again I heard a tapping ,something louder than before, Begod, said I, Begod that is something at my window (hic) lattice, Let me see then what this is and this mystery explore, As I tripped and picked myself up off the beer stained floor, Tis the wind and nothing more.

Open here I flung the shutter, when ,with many a faint and flutter, In there stepped the ghastly unshaven of the the faintly days of yore.
Not the least obeisance made she, not a minute stopped, stayed she. But with mien of Lord or Lady , perched upon my window sill, So startled as I , as I watched my beer begin to spill, Perched and sat and nothing more.

Then this old bird, beguiling my sad fancy into smiling, By the grace and stern decorum of the countenance it wore. Though thy face be not shorn, unshaven, though I said, art sure no craven. Ghastly grim, an ancient bird wanderly from the nightly shade.

Tell me , what thy Lordly name is as my beer again I pore, Quote the unshaven, Carling!
Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl, To hear such discource 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 this bird at his window sill, So rattled as I, as I, watched my beer, again, begin to spill, With such a name as Carling.

But the unshaven , sitting lonely on that treasured sill, Spoke only that one word, as if her soul in that one word, She did outpour. Nothing further, then she uttered, not a feather then she fluttered, 'Til I scarcely more than muttered, your friends have been here before, Then this bird said ' Carling'

Startled by 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, 'Til the dirges of his hope that meloncholy burden bore, Of 'Carling'.

But the unshaven still beguiling , all my sad soul into smiling, Straight I wheeled into smiling, a cushioned seat, in front of bird And sill.
Then upon its velvet sinking, I betook myself into linking, Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore, Meant in croaking 'Carling'.
This I sat engaged in guessing , such syllables as distressing, As I poured another beer, I was confessing, This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining, She shall press 'Ah Carling'

Then me thought the air grew denser, Perfumed from an unseen censer, Swung by L'Oreal whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor.
Ah !, I cried Thy God had lent thee, By these angels ,he has sent thee.
Alas ! Alas! My memories of Lenore, Came flooding back, her lisp, her wonderful lisp, Lenore, Quote the unshaven, Carling.

Yes, said I, You thing of beauty, we embraced and nothing more, What sayth you , my sweet Lenore, You locked me outside the crawing room coor, Remember Carling? Egads, I plead, What misery I fumbled to express, her stubbly chin, her big boosey breasts, her red and beery eyes, I had seen before, Tis my wife Lenore and her dress hath caught upon this very sill, Evermore.

Pray tell me, what news of yonder do you bring, As fit and plump for a well nourished king? I hate to say this, her raindrop voice, soothed my breast with its pitter patter, until I noticed it was more beer that I had spilled. It looks like the chamber pot's broken.
Wretch, I cried, thing of evil, prophet still, more beer I spill. Worse than that , she sighed, her sweet charm wafting over me, We're out of toilet rolls again...

The final repartee, a dagger to my side, I slump over the velvet cushion and exclaim, By that heaven that bends above us, We shall nary partake of boosey nights, This I proclaim, this I confess, Quote the unshaven, 'Carling nevermore'!