Parody: The Raven

Writing a parody is not an easy task, one must maintain not only the structure and rhyming patterns but also the “feel” of the poem being parodied. Some poems would be harder than others to parody, The Raven being a case in point. The style, the internal rhymes, the narrative would all be difficult to incorporate. That is why the parody below is a good effort, telling the story of how Edgard Allen Poe’s cat killed the raven and brought Poe’s interaction with it to an end. The story is told by Poe’s cat. 

First, the original poem . . . 

BY EDGAR ALLAN POE 

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary, 

Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore— 

While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping, 

As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door. 

“’Tis some visitor,” I muttered, “tapping at my chamber door— 

    Only this and nothing more.” 

Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December; 

And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor. 

Eagerly I wished the morrow;—vainly I had sought to borrow 

From my books surcease of sorrow—sorrow for the lost Lenore— 

For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore— 

    Nameless here for evermore. 

And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each purple curtain 

Thrilled me—filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;

So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating 

“’Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door— 

Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door;— 

This it is and nothing more.” 

Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer, 

“Sir,” said I, “or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore; 

But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping, 

And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door, 

That I scarce was sure I heard you”—here I opened wide the door;— 

    Darkness there and nothing more. 

Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing, 

Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before; 

But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token, 

And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, “Lenore?” 

This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, “Lenore!”— 

    Merely this and nothing more. 

Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning, 

Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before. 

“Surely,” said I, “surely that is something at my window lattice; 

Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore— 

Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore;— 

    ’Tis the wind and nothing more!” 

Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter, 

In there stepped a stately Raven of the saintly days of yore; 

Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he; 

But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door— 

Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door— 

    Perched, and sat, and nothing more. 

Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling, 

By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore, 

“Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou,” I said, “art sure no craven, 

Ghastly grim and ancient Raven wandering from the Nightly shore— 

Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night’s Plutonian shore!” 

    Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.” 

Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly, 

Though its answer little meaning—little relevancy bore; 

For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being 

Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door— 

Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door, 

    With such name as “Nevermore.” 

But the Raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only 

That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour. 

Nothing farther then he uttered—not a feather then he fluttered— 

Till I scarcely more than muttered “Other friends have flown before— 

On the morrow he will leave me, as my Hopes have flown before.” 

    Then the bird said “Nevermore.” 

Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken, 

“Doubtless,” said I, “what it utters is its only stock and store 

Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster 

Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore— 

Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore 

    Of ‘Never—nevermore’.” 

But the Raven still beguiling all my fancy into smiling, 

Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird, and bust and door; 

Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking 

Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore— 

What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore 

    Meant in croaking “Nevermore.” 

This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing 

To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom’s core; 

This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining 

On the cushion’s velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o’er, 

But whose velvet-violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o’er, 

    She shall press, ah, nevermore! 

Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer 

Swung by Seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor. 

“Wretch,” I cried, “thy God hath lent thee—by these angels he hath sent thee 

Respite—respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore; 

Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe and forget this lost Lenore!” 

    Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.” 

“Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil!—prophet still, if bird or devil!— 

Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore, 

Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted— 

On this home by Horror haunted—tell me truly, I implore— 

Is there—is there balm in Gilead?—tell me—tell me, I implore!” 

    Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.” 

“Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil!—prophet still, if bird or devil! 

By that Heaven that bends above us—by that God we both adore— 

Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn, 

It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore— 

Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore.” 

    Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.” 

“Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!” I shrieked, upstarting— 

“Get thee back into the tempest and the Night’s Plutonian shore! 

Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken! 

Leave my loneliness unbroken!—quit the bust above my door! 

Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!” 

    Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.” 

And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting 

On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door; 

And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon’s that is dreaming, 

And the lamp-light o’er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor; 

And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor 

    Shall be lifted—nevermore! 

The parody: 

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 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.