(from "Poetry For Cats" 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 purched 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 the 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 filled 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 an end to that damned ditty" — then I heard him start to
snore.
Back atop the door I clambered, eyed the statue I abhor,
Jumped — and smashed
it to the floor.
