Quoth the Ravens, "LOMBARDI BITCHEZ!!"

Once upon an evening dreary, Colin pondered, weak and weary, Over a many quaint and curious volume of forgotten plays. While he pondered, seeming napping, suddenly Jim came a slapping whilst beyonce was a' rapping, tapping heels across the floor. "Tis only halftime now" he muttered, "stop slapping my locker door." He tried his best, and nothing more. Ah, distinctly he remembered, that it was the bleak December, And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor. Eagerly he wished the morrow; - vainly he had sought to borrow from his books surcease of sorrow - sorrow for the lost Lombardi - For the rare and radiant trophy whom the angels named Lombardi - stolen here, just like the score. And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain Thrilled him, filled him with fantastic terrors never felt before; So that now, to still the beating of his heart, he stood repeating `'Tis some nightmare, for surely this just cannot be the score - Some late prank entreating effecting what is called the score; - This it is, and nothing more,' Presently his soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer, `Sir,' said he, `or Harbaugh, truly your forgiveness I implore; But its halftime, I was napping, and so rudely you came rapping, And so faintly you came flapping, flapping gums about the score, That I scarce was sure I heard you' - here he opened wide the door; - Darkness there, and nothing more. Deep into that darkness peering, long he 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, `Lombardi!' This he whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, `Lombardi' Merely this and nothing more. Back onto the field now turning, all his soul within him burning, Soon again he heard a murmuring, somewhat louder than before. `Surely,' said he 'surely that is something at my left, Let me see then, where's the threat, and how is this the score - Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore; - 'Tis the wind and nothing more!' Spinning here he flung with shudder, when, with many a flirt and flutter, In there stepped a stately raven of the college 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 where showed the score - Perched upon a field sublime, just above where showed the score - Perched, and sat, and nothing more. Then this ebony bird beguiling Colin's sad fancy into smiling, By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore, `Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou,' he 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 New Orleans shore!' Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.' Kaepernick marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly, (Shortened because I'm tired of typing.) `Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!' Colin shrieked upstarting - `Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's New Orleans shore! Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken! Leave my loneliness unbroken! - quit the field, go out the door! Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my score!' Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'