Once upon a Lawn night dreary, while Bob pondered weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of fundraising lore,
While Bob nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping the pavilion door.
"Tis some visitor," he muttered, "tapping my pavilion door --
Drunken frat boys, nothing more."
But then Bob flung the door wide, setting some donor biographies aside,
In there stepped a stately raven of the saintly days of yore.
Not the least obeisance made he; not a penny wasted nor stayed he;
But, with mien of (rich!) lord or lady, perched above the pavilion door --
Perched upon a bust of Jefferson just above the chamber door --
Perched, and sat, and nothing more.
But the raven, sitting lonely on the pricey bust, spoke only,
three words, as if from the Board of Visitors did his soul outpour.
Nothing further then he uttered -- not a feather then he fluttered --
Till Bob uttered "Lawnies protested once before for using pavilions clearly to whore
Jefferson's dream in a clever scheme. My party pad this will remain as before."
Then the bird cried, "Raise some more!"
"Profit!" said he, "thing of evil! -- profit still, if bird or devil! --
Whether streaker sent, or whether Alumni Hall tossed thee here ashore,
Desolate yet all undaunted, on this Academical Village enchanted --
On this snazzy home by finances haunted -- tell me truly, I implore --
Is there -- Know you not the Capital Campaign? -- tell me -- pay me, I implore!'
Quoth the raven, "Raise some more!"
And the raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is pitting
little holes hurling nickels, dimes and pennies at the pavilion door;
And his eyes have all the seeming of Casteen's that now are dreaming,
of stacks of donor money casting one looming shadow on the floor;
And his soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
Shall be lifted -- Raise some more!