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 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 on the floor.