The End of the Raven
by Edgar Allan Poe's Cat
by Henry Beard
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 
Toward his roost atop that dreaded bust of Pallas I deplore. 
While the bard and birdie chattered, I made sure that nothing clattered, 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-- 
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.

"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 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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