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, 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 -

	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.

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