It's a Murder of Crows that gather on her grave
I come here often my soul to save, should she
return perhaps she will forgive my sins as I
continue to live. I met her in the fall of 69
I was young, she was fine. She stared at me,
her raven hair black as night, her eyes red ready
to question her thin-lipped smile a gash across
her pale skin, her nose shaped like a bleak beak
She whispered only should she speak.
The Congress of her behavior, the shattering of
her cries, a hundred black birds flying, a nursery
rhyme about a bitter pan of humble pie.
I read her the verses quothing Poe dreary
forlorn, I held her cold hands in the cold snow
I sung the dirge full of contemptuous woe
I promised to leave her, I even tried to go.
I walked her casket out of the gray morn
I curse under my breath, I cursed the day she
was born. I held her throat in my old hands
I swore that I loved her, I pleaded her ghost
to understand, I took her to wife, I held her
closer still before she took her life.
