The
End of the Raven
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.
By
Edgar Allen Poe's Cat