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're 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 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 to the floor.

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