Some say the song of a crow is a cry   Some say the cry of a crow is a lie      I wonder what it's like to be one of them   Do they get jealous?   Are some blacker   And therefore creators of envy and mistrust in the dark hearts   Of their brethren?   Or do they just exist   Scavenging crumbs of carrion here and there   Laughing, cackling really   At the two legged pestilence   Painfully fouling the ground beneath their airborne pirouettes   Do they really want their screaching and hideous demanding offspring   Or do they simply have no choice   But to follow compulsions blindly   Driving them into situations they cannot control   Situations that look so easy and desirable   But lead only to the same pain   And the same suffering   And the same lifeless branches that always indicate   A barrier of barren emptiness   Dead trees are everywhere