The End of the Raven

[tanwyn]

 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 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 feather bore. 
Soon he was a heap of plumage, and a little blood and gore - 
Only this and not much more. 
Then 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.

- Edgar Allen Poe's Cat