Once upon a midnight dreary, as I stumbled, drunk and weary, through dimly lit and winding alleys, a forgotten urban maze, I lurched, my balance failing, when a whisper, softly wailing, reached my ears, a drunken ranting from a shadowed doorway’s haze. “’Tis some fellow sot,” I muttered, “ranting in the doorway’s haze—Only this, and nothing more.”
Vaguely I recall the revels, the boisterous, drunken devils, and the hazy, shifting pathways that led me astray once more. Yearning for the night’s continuation, I’d hailed a ride, a liberation, yet I stepped out, sobered, saddened—sober, and bereft of my liqueur—That sweet, intoxicating ferment, the brewers call liqueur—Lost, alas, forevermore.
The twisting, turning byways, once I’d left the taxi’s pathways, filled me with a strange confusion—streets I’d never seen before! So, to gain my bearings, swaying, I stood staring, phone displaying, at the map, while faintly hearing whispers from a darkened door. “Just a drunken reveler whispering from the darkened door—This is all, and nothing more.”
Dutch courage, fueled by liquor, gave me boldness, made me quicker. “Wretch!” I cried, “or gentle maiden, show yourself, I do implore! Homeward bound, my legs unsteady, I can hear your whispers, heady, almost chanting, softly ranting, from behind that darkened door—I can hear you lurking there”—I squinted at the darkened door—Darkness there, and nothing more.
In my drunken stupor peering, I stood listening, though not hearing, dreaming dreams of all the sweetened spirits I had drunk before. Though the hour was late, and pouring had ceased, I felt the warming, restoring touch of phantom whiskey, a liqueur. I swallowed, but I tasted only the whispered word, “Liqueur!”—Merely this, and nothing more.
Down another alley turning, all my thirsty soul was burning, when a glint of something caught my eye upon the cobbled floor. “Surely,” I exclaimed, “upon this pavement, gleams a bottle dormant!” And I stumbled, nearly tumbled, eager to investigate it more—”Don’t be empty,” I implored, as I investigated more—This I said, and nothing more.
Reaching down upon the paving, I grasped a flask, my heart craving, whiskey labeled “Raven,” from the golden days of yore. Not a moment did I tarry, not a second did I parry, but I popped the lid to taste it, by that shadowed, darkened door—Popped the lid and took a swig there, by that shadowed, darkened door—It was air, and nothing more.
Then, the fragrant bottle raising, my drunk brow in deep amazement, I began to shake it, hearing liquid sloshing at its core. “Though you taste of air insipid, I can feel you’re full of liquid!” I declared, and tried to sip it, but it baffled me once more. “Tell me what you truly are—this isn’t funny anymore!” Quoth the Raven, “Nevermore.”
I was shocked to hear an answer from this spiritless decanter, a response so unexpected, never heard of this before. No one else was there to hear it, but who’s heard of any spirit, brandy, beer, or vintage claret, vodka, gin, or rich liqueur, from a label marked “The Raven”? Who has heard of a liqueur with a name like “Nevermore”?
The Raven in my fingers, never flinching, ever lingers, speaking only that one word, as if that word were all it poured. Nothing further from the vessel, not a drop, nor even a rustle, till I scarcely more than whispered, “Other flasks have drained before—This one likewise must be empty, like my hopes that drained before.” Then the flask said, “Nevermore.”
(The poem continues in this vein, following the original structure and rhyme scheme, focusing on the search for liquor and the mocking response of the “Raven” flask. The conclusion finds the narrator still clutching the empty flask, his hopes of finding more liqueur dashed.)