I think I’m going to start posting something funny on the weekends. A joke, a humor list, some memes; traffic goes way down on the weekends, and I don’t feel like writing anything meaningful, but at the same time, I’ve got a pretty rich file of old humor bits that are sometimes still relevant (kind of like how Berkeley Breathed keeps resurfacing Bloom County strips from the ’80s which are relevant again).
Anyway, a bit more preamble – Back in the Stone Age, when the Internet was young (okay, it was the ’90s. Bear with me.) There were a lot of joke a day type email lists. While I was in college and without email access, my kind little brother (no, definitely not that one) would compile a bunch of these emails onto a couple of 3.5″ disks and mail them to me. Yes, I got my email by actual mail. Back on target here… Anyway, I found that I’d managed to archive most of those disk contents onto a series of hard drive copies as I upgraded computers over the years, to the point where I finally dumped the whole set of archived folders into a cloud folder on my personal OneDrive.
Which is a long way of saying that these files are older than some of my coworkers. It’s also a lot easier to research things now, which is why while this poem originally arrived “Author Unknown” from the Jedihawk Joke List (Holy Mackerel, I think that’s the same guy still!) I can now properly attribute the poem to Poetry for Cats: The Definitive Anthology of Distinguished Feline Verse by Henry Beard. (Which may well now be a Christmas present for Adventure Girl.)
THE END OF THE RAVEN
by
Edgar Allen Poe’s cat
from Henry Beard’s ‘Poetry For Cats’
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 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.