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
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, curious 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, plus 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.