The Ultimate Vampire Resource and Directory

By: Edgar Allen Poe's cat



On a night quite unenchanting,

When the rain was downward slanting,

I awaken to the ranting of the man I catch mice for.

Tipsy and a bit unshaven,

In a tone I found quite craven,

Poe sat talking to a raven perched upon the chamber door.

"Ravens very tasty," thought I,

As I tiptoed o'er the floor.



Soft upon the rug I treaded,

Calm and carefully I headed,

Toward 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 floor.

For his house is crammed with trinkets,

curios, and weird decor - -

Bric-a-brac and junk galore.



Still the Raven fluttered,

Standing stock still as he uttered,

In a voice that shrieked and sputtered,

His two cents worth - - "Nevermore."

While this dirge the bird brain 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 nothing more.



"Ohh!" my pickled poet cried out,

"Pussycat, it's time I dried up!

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 danged ditty,"

Then I heard him start to snore.

Back atop the door I clambered,

Eyed that statue I abhor,

Jumped - - and smashed it to the floor.

What is utter despair but to know that there is that which must,

Because if it's very nature, destroy that which is good and beautiful,

And worse ... to look upon that destruction ... and see your own fate.



All that is golden, glazed in innocence bread of truest noble trust,

Destroyed by the inherent oblivion laden upon all things born hateful,

And worse ... to look upon that oblivion ... and know it shall never abate.



There is a strength in the spirits of those who refuse to go quietly,

Into the dying of a light that such despair might wreck upon their soul,

And yet ... their frail angel wings grow tired ... for the war is long.



Though we might constuct cathedrals to the valiant slain, so mighty,

Still many are left behind so broken, and the tears they shed untold,

And yet ... their frail angel wings remain unbroken ... still they are strong.



See the battlefeild in the red crimson of a war so many will never see,

Blind because they do not care about the devastation they leave behind,

And still ... though we know that death would swallow us ... we live.



Prehaps we are bound to a hope of light that we know will never be,

It seems our fate to be, by the blood and tears so devastating, defined,

And still ... though we know that that death would take us ... we give.



Can the darkness be anything other than it is? Can hate be less than destruction?

Can we despise a thing for it's very nature, and yet hold ourselves blameless?

And one wonders ... is there anything which makes us any less destructive?



Are we not also guilty with blood on our hands that we are deserveing of retribution?

We prertend at purity, and yet the evils we to commit are so very shamless,

And one wonders ... is there anything we can do enough to be redemptive?