Near the top of some shelves in the deepest of nooks,
 Safely nestled between empty bottles and books,
Edgar's cat began stirring as midnight drew near.
 She blinked both her eyes, then she cocked back an ear
And asked, "How can mere humans who cherish the light
 Hope to write eerie stories to frighten at night?
If speaking of shadows and weird stuff like that
 There is no one who knows better tales than a cat!"

So she slunk from her shelf, all her senses alert,
 Snatched a quill from the raven she'd munched for dessert
And sprang to the desktop with feline delight,
 Dipped her quill in the inkwell, and started to write ...

She composed chilling stories of crusty green mold,
 A half-blinded cat and a bug made of gold,
A pendulum's swing as the time is a-fleeting,
 The thub-dub of prey as their hearts are a-beating,
The scent of cement from a freshly-bricked wall,
 And a masque she once spied at a nobleman's ball.

The ink on her parchment had scarcely gone dry
 When the sunrise diminished each star from the sky.
So with no time to spare the cat gathered her notes
 And exchanged them with Edgar’s collection of quotes
Which she pinned with disdain with one tortoise-shell paw
 And reduced to small shreds with a razor-sharp claw.
Then she scattered the pieces all over the floor,
 Which blew into the fire
    To be seen