 Let's look at the artwork. Let's take a look at this. The Raven by Edgar Allan Poe. Bill Fingers the artwork, and this is from Mad Comics, number nine from 1954. Okay. This comic is sent to us as a care package by Max and Max. Thank you very much for the love. I hope you're enjoying this reading. Let's have a read through the second story of this comic, The Raven by Edgar Allan Poe. Classical type comics department. Once upon an evening, dreary, while we pondered weak and weary in the public library, on a comic story plot, while we, nodded nearly nappy, came at a tendon, a tappy, on our head so gently wrappy, spoke. That's all the time you've got. Oh, were we mad? We howled, we raved, and that's what this story is about. The Raven by Edgar Allan Poe. Clunk clunk bash bam, E-R-N-L-S-M-F-T, phony poo poo, chocolate covered that Raven maniac elder. 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 someone gently wrapping, wrapping at my chamber door, this some visitor I muttered, tapping at my chamber door. Only this and nothing. Clunk clunk bash bam. 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, for my books surceased of sorrow, sorrow for the lost Lenore, for the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels named Lenore, nameless here for evermore. And the silken sad curtain, 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, clunk clunk clunk, to some visitor entering, and treating entrance at my chamber door, some late visitor, and treating entrance at my chamber door. This is it and nothing more. Presently my soul grew stronger, hesitating then no longer. Sir, said I, or madam, truly your forgiveness I implore. Back this I was napping, and so gently you came rapping, and so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door. That I scare 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 me, 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 in the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning. Soon again I heard it tapping, somewhat louder than before. Surely, said I, surely that is something at my window lattice. Let me see then what threats is, threats is, and this mystery explore. Let me let my heart be still a moment, and this mystery explore. This the wind and nothing more. Open here I flung the shutter, wind with many a flirt and flutter, in their step a stately raven of the saintly days of yore. Not the least obedience, made he, not a minute stopped or stayed he, least obeisance made he. But with mine of Lord or lady perched above my chamber door, perched upon a dust of palace just above my chamber door, perched and sat and nothing more. Then this ebony bird be guilty, my sad fancy into smiling, by the grave and stern the quorum of the continents in lore. Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, though I said art sure no raven. Gasly grin an 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 marveled this ungainly foul 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 at least, bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door, with such name as nevermore. But the raven sitting lonely on the placid dust spoke only that one word as if his soul in that one word he did outpour. Nothing further than he uttered, not a feather then he fluttered, till I scarcely more than muttered. Other friends have flown before, on the morrow he will never, 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, what it utters is its only stalk and store caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful disaster followed fast and followed faster till his song won burden bore till the dirgs of his hope that melancholy burden bore of never, nevermore. But the raven still beguilding my sad fancy into smiling. Straight I wheeled the cushion seat in front of bird and bust and door. Then upon the velvet sinking I betook myself to linking fancy onto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of lore, what this grim ungainly ghastly gaunt and ominous bird of lore, meant in crock croaking nevermore. This I sat engaged in guessing but no syllable expressing to the foul whose fury I now burned into my bosom's lore. This and more I sat divining with my head at ease reclining on the cushion's velvet lining that the lamplight clotted oar but whose velvet violet lining with the lamplight gloating oar. She shall press, ah, nevermore. Then me thought the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censor, swung by saffrin, saffrin whose footfalls tinkled on the toughed floor. Rich I cried that God hath lent thee by these angels he hath sent thee. Respite, respite, an nap of napenth from the memories of Lenore. Quoth, oh quoth, this kind nap of napenth, and forget this lost Lenore. Quoth the raven, nevermore. Prophets, said I, think of evil, prophets still, if bird or devil. Whether tempter sent or tempest tossed, thee here ashore, desolate yet all, undaunted. On this desert I 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, think of evil, prophets still, if bird or devil. By that heaven that bends above us, by that God we doth adore. Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant aiden, 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 friend, I shrieked on starting, starting. Get thee back into the tempest and the night's plutonian shore, leave no plank plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken. Leave my loneliness unbroken, quit the bust above my door, take the 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 palace just above my chamber door, and his eyes have all the seeming of a demon, demons 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.