POEM: Super Bowl

It's Super Bowl Weekend!  Let's celebrate the teams by acknowledging their lyrical backgrounds.  OK - the '49ers poem might be a bit of a stretch ... but how great is it that Baltimore's football team is named after a poem?

The Raven by Edgar Allan Poe Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary, Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore—     While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping, As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door. “’Tis some visiter,” I muttered, “tapping at my chamber door—             Only this and nothing more.”     Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December; And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.     Eagerly I wished the morrow;—vainly I had sought to borrow     From my books surcease of sorrow—sorrow for the lost Lenore— For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore—             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 visiter entreating entrance at my chamber door— Some late visiter entreating entrance at my chamber 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 napping, and so gently you came rapping,     And so faintly you came tapping, tapping 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 stillness gave no token,     And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, “Lenore?” This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, “Lenore!”—             Merely this and nothing more.     Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning, Soon again I heard a tapping 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 Raven of the saintly 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 my chamber door— Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door—             Perched, and sat, and nothing more. Then this ebony bird 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 grim and ancient Raven wandering from the Nightly shore— Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night’s Plutonian shore!”             Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”     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 bird above his chamber door— Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door,             With such name as “Nevermore.”     But the Raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.     Nothing farther then he uttered—not a feather then he fluttered—     Till I scarcely more than muttered “Other friends have flown before— On the morrow he will leave me, as my Hopes have flown before.”             Then the bird said “Nevermore.”     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 ‘Never—nevermore’.”     But the Raven still beguiling all my fancy into smiling, Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird, and bust and door;     Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking     Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore— What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore             Meant in croaking “Nevermore.”     This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing To the fowl 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,             She shall press, ah, nevermore!     Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer Swung by Seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor.     “Wretch,” I cried, “thy God hath lent thee—by these angels he hath sent thee     Respite—respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore; Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe and forget this lost Lenore!”             Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”     “Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil!—prophet still, if bird or devil!— Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest 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 Raven “Nevermore.”     “Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil!—prophet still, if bird or devil! By that Heaven that bends above us—by that God we both adore—     Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,     It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore— Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore.”             Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”     “Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!” I shrieked, upstarting— “Get thee back into the tempest and the Night’s Plutonian shore!     Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!     Leave my loneliness unbroken!—quit the bust above my door! Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!”             Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”     And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber 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—nevermore!

Darling Clementine by Percy Montrose In a cavern, in a canyon, Excavating for a mine Dwelt a miner forty niner, And his daughter Clementine ·         Chorus: Oh my darling, oh my darling, Oh my darling, Clementine! Thou art lost and gone forever Dreadful sorry, Clementine Light she was and like a fairy, And her shoes were number nine Herring boxes, without topses, Sandals were for Clementine. --Chor. Drove she ducklings to the water Ev'ry morning just at nine, Hit her foot against a splinter, Fell into the foaming brine. – Chor. Ruby lips above the water, Blowing bubbles, soft and fine, But, alas, I was no swimmer, So I lost my Clementine. – Chor. How I missed her! How I missed her, How I missed my Clementine, But I kissed her little sister, I forgot my Clementine. – Chor. ---OR--- How I missed her! How I missed her, How I missed my Clementine, Till I kissed her little sister, and forgot my Clementine. – Chor. ---OR--- How I missed her, how I missed her How I missed my Clementine. So I kissed her little sister, And forgot my Clementine. ---OR--- In a churchyard on a hillside Where the flowers grow and twine There grow roses amongst the posies Flowers for my Clementine. – Chor. ---OR--- Then the miner forty-niner He began to weep and pine For his darling little daughter Now he's with his Clementine – Chor. ---OR--- In a churchyard on a hillside Where the flowers grow and twine There grow roses amongst the posies On the grave of Clementine – Chor. ---OR--- In a corner of the churchyard, Where the myrtle boughs entwine, Grow the roses in their poses, Fertilized by Clementine. – Chor. ---OR--- In A Tavern in the canyon, Drinking beer and lots of wine, Sat a miner forty niner, Grieving over Clementine. – Chor. ---OR--- Then the miner forty niner, He began to peak and pine, Thought he oughta join his daughter Now he's with his Clementine. – Chor. ---OR--- In my dreams she still doth haunt me, Robed in garments soaked in brine. Though in life I used to hug her, Now she's dead, I'll draw the line.[1] – Chor. ---OR--- Now you Boy Scouts, there's a moral To this little tale of mine. Artificial respiration, Would have saved my Clementine. – Chor. ---OR--- When she slipped and hit the water 'felt my heart skip a time All had scattered nothin' mattered 'cept my darlin' clementine. – Chor. Alternate Lyrics In the centre of a golden valley, Dwelt a maiden all divine, A pretty creature a miner's daughter, And her name was Clementine. Chorus: Oh my darling, oh my darling, My darling Clementine, You are lost for me forever, Dear sweet darling, Clementine. Her noble father was the foreman Of ev'ry valued mine, And ev'ry miner and ranchman, Was a brother to Clementine. – Chor. The foreman miner, an old forty niner, In dreams and thoughts sublime, Lived in comfort with his daughter, His pretty child Clementine. – Chor. When far away, he would often pray, That in his sunny clime, No harm might overtake her, His favorite nugget, Clementine. – Chor. When the day was done and the setting sun, Its rays they ceased to shine, Homeward came the brawny miner, To caress his Clementine. – Chor. None was nearer, none was dearer, Since the days of forty-nine, When, in youth, he had another, Who was then his Clementine. – Chor. She led her ducks down to the river, The weather it was fine, Stubbed her toe against a sliver, Fell into the raging brine. – Chor. He heard her calling: "Father, father!" Her voice was like a chime, But alas he was no swimmer, So he lost his Clementine. – Chor. How I missed her, how I missed her, How I missed my Clementine, Till I kissed her little sister, Bouyon my Clementine. – Chor.