The End of the Raven
by Edgar Allan 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 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 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.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

- "The End of the Raven" by Edgar Allan Poe's Cat
(from Henry Beard's, _POETRY_FOR_CATS_, copyright 1994)


http://grooveshark.com/#!/search/song?q=Leslie+Fish+The+End+of+the+Raven

Wolf

Thanks for posting that!

Here is a version I wrote while on a diet.

The Craving

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious DU thread du jour --
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came unwrapping,
As of someone gently snacking, snacking at the kitchen door.
"'Tis the husband up," I muttered, "snacking at the kitchen door.
Only this and nothing more."

Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December
And on that night I was sober, not passed out upon the floor.
Eagerly I wished the morrow -- vainly I had sough to borrow,
From my Mac surcease of sorrow -- sorrow for the lost size 4 --
Nameless here for evermore.

Presently my bowels growled louder, hesitating then no longer,
"Sam," said I, "Oh husband, truly your forgiveness I implore;
But the fact is I was napping, and so gently your unwrapping,
And so faintly you were munching, munching at the kitchen door,
That I scarce was sure I heard you" -- here I opened wide the kitchen door --
Roaches there, and nothing more.

Deep into the darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,
Doubting, dreaming ice creams no dieter ever cared to dream before;
But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token,
And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, "Size 4."
Merely this and nothing more.

Then into the kitchen, calories within me burning,
Soon again I heard unwrapping, somewhat louder than before.
"Surely," said I, "surely, that is something not good for my fat ass;
Let me see, then, what's to eat there, and this mystery explore --
Let my gut be still a moment and this mystery explore --
'Tis the winds and nothing more!"

Open here I flung the fridge door, where, with many a pat of butter,
In there stayed a steak with gravy, from a tasty meal of yore.
Not the least obese it made me, not a nibble sipped or tasted;
But, with ramen (lard and miso), perched above three ice-cold Coors --
Perched therein a slice of pizza, just above three ice-cold Coors.
Perched, all fat, and nothing more.

Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from unseen leftovers,
Wrapped in cellophane whose contents crowded the refrigera-tor.
"Belch," I burped, "thy Gouda hath lent thee -- with those bagels thee will tempt me,
Respite, respite and don't tempt me, leave my memories of size 4;
Quaff, oh quaff this diet soda and forget the cream cheese stored."
Quoth the Craving, "Nevermore."

"Pork ribs," said I, "thing of evil -- pork ribs broiled or barbecued.
By this heaving that bends us over -- by the Guoda we both adore --
Tell this self with fatness laden if, within the distant weigh-in,
I shall fit the sainted garment which the labels name size 4 --
Fit the rare and radiant garment which the labels name size 4?"
Quoth the Craving, "Nevermore."

"Be that word our sign of partying, breaded or fried," I shrieked, then farted.
"Get the booze back in the ice box and the night's blue corn chips stored,
Leave no crumbs as a token of the lie thy soul has spoken.
Leave my dieting unbroken -- quit my refrigera-tor!
Take thy beef from out my sight, and hide the fromage, por favor."
Quoth the Craving, "Nevermore."

And the Craving, never filling, still I'm sitting,
On my pallid butt enormous, empty now, the refrigera-tor;
And my thighs have burst the seaming of my pants from overeating,
And the fridge light o'er me streaming throws my shadow on the floor,
And the diet book I followed, that lies face-down on the floor,
Shall be lifted -- nevermore.