Monsignor's Cat...

and a poetry selection...

Literary

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 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 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.