Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,
In there stepped a mouthy canuck of the saintly days of yore;
A constant squawking made he; not an instant 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, squawked and squawked, nothing more.
Quoth the Sprayshaw...I suck