Crow

High in an oak tree
An old crow’s keeping its eye on me,
Wondering what this strange-looking bird might be:

“This bird can’t hop;
This bird never flies;
There’s nothing for a crow here, ‘til it dies.”

Crow voices in my mind
Speak to me through its coal black eyes.
Suddenly, it takes off for the skies.

Off in some pine tree
That old crow’s still got his eye on me,
Wondering what this strange-looking bird might be.