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What If Cats Wrote Poetry? |
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. |
Hamlet's Cat's Soliloquy from HAMLET'S CAT
by William Shakespeare's Cat
To go outside, and there perchance to stay
Or to remain within: that is the question:
Whether 'tis better for a cat to suffer
The cuffs and buffets of inclement weather
That Nature rains on those who roam abroad,
Or take a nap upon a scrap of carpet,
And so by dozing melt the solid hours
That clog the clock's bright gears with sullen time
And stall the dinner bell.
To sit, to stare
Outdoors, and by a stare to seem to state
A wish to venture forth without delay,
Then when the portal's opened up, to stand
As if transfixed by doubt.
To prowl; to sleep;
To choose not knowing when we may once more
Our readmittance gain: aye, there's the hairball;
For if a paw were shaped to turn a knob,
Or work a lock or slip a window-catch,
And going out and coming in were made
As simple as the breaking of a bowl,
What cat would bear the household's petty plagues,
The cook's well-practiced kicks, the butler's broom,
The infant's careless pokes, the tickled ears,
The trampled tail, and all the daily shocks
That fur is heir to, when, of his own free will,
He might his exodus or entrance make
With a mere mitten?
Who would spaniels fear,
Or strays trespassing from a neighbor's yard,
But that the dread of our unheeded cries
And scratches at a barricaded door
No claw can open up, dispels our nerve
And makes us rather bear our humans' faults
Than run away to unguessed miseries?
Thus caution doth make house cats of us all;
And thus the bristling hair of resolution
Is softened up with the pale brush of thought,
And since our choices hinge on weighty things,
We pause upon the threshold of decision.
