Personal note: This showed up anonymously on the Internet a number of years ago. It is what I would call "fiendishly clever," with its borrowing of imagery and structure from the original, while utterly violating the dark horror of that original.

The End of the Raven
Edgar Allen Poe's Cat

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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 thought 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 the 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 full of 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;
Now 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.