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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 wierd 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 lept 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 and 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.