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Sunday, November 19, 2006



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 - "Nevermore."
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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