That old crow

The crow, he is struggling to

Fly, his beak dragged

Open, his wings askew

Feathers draped in mud.

He holds you with his one good

Eye, it casts about for

Life. And on his

Back a deep lined gash.

He looks past you and your

Demise, your sincere and your

Haggard. He looks on the

Horizon of the world.

The crow, he is struggling to

Fly, his end likely near.

A corpse he'll dance the

Maggot squirm for you.

And then you'll maybe

Know the tune, that

Well-worn jig and

Cast it firm aside.