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 carefully 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 nothing more.

   "Ah!" 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, noble 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.

(Author unknown....)


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Barbara Petersen, August 1999 barb@velvet.com