The End of the Raven--

by Edgar Allen Poe's Cat

 On a night quite unenchanting,

when the rain was downward slanting,

I awakened to the ranting

of the man I catch mice for.

Tipsy and a bit unshaven,in a tone I found quite craven,

Poe was talking to a Raven

perched above the chamber door. "Raven's very tasty," thought I,

as I tiptoed o'er the floor,

"There is nothing I like more"

 Soft upon the rug I treaded,

calm and careful as I headed

Towards his roost atop that dreaded

bust of Pallas I deplore.

While the bard and birdie chattered,

I made sure that nothing clattered, Creaked, or snapped, or fell, or

shattered, as I crossed the corridor;

For his house is crammed with trinkets, curios and weird decor -

Bric-a-brac and junk galore.

 Still the Raven never fluttered,

standing stock-still as he uttered,

In a voice that shrieked and sputtered,

 his two cents' worth -

"Nevermore."

While this dirge the birdbrain kept up,

oh, so silently I crept up,

Then I crouched and quickly leapt up, pouncing on the feathered bore.

Soon he was a heap of plumage, and a little blood and gore -

Only this and not much more.

"Oooo!" my pickled poet cried out, "Pussycat, it's time I dried out!

Never sat I in my hideout

talking to a bird before;

How I've wallowed in self-pity,

while my gallant, valiant kitty

Put an end to that damned ditty" -

then I heard him start to snore.

Back atop the door I clambered,

eyed that statue I abhor,

Jumped - and smashed it on the floor.