The End of the Raven

by Edgar Allan 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 Poe's 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.

"Ooooh!" 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.

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