Rabbit Hole time!
So Paw's link led me to the fantastic
Dictionaries of the Scots Language:
https://dsl.ac.uk/And this made me think of Sir Harry Lauder's old music hall songs, which of course sent me to a wondrous trove of
Music Hall Lyrics:
https://monologues.co.uk/musichall/But of course, intrigued by the label "monologues.co.uk" I had to follow the hierarchy upward, whereupon I discovered the amazing
British Music Hall Monologues portal (
https://monologues.co.uk/), which invites us to peruse not only famous monologues but also a tour of West Wirral, a collection of dirty British seaside postcards, and a gallery of pencil portraits of celebrities with guidance on how to make your own. I went for the monologues...
From there I settled upon the section
Popular Parodies, where the circle began to return toward
CB+ (for all roads eventually lead to CB+) as I beheld a link to
The End Of The Raven - by Edgar Allen Poe's Cat! And so in honor of our own
Prof H I append hereunder this little-known literary treasure.
The End of the RavenOn 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.
--From Henry Beard's
Poetry For Cats