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A ways outside the tower and turmoil of towns, |
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In the quiet color cutting of another splendid sunset |
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on the spit of wire spun between two telephone pole necks, |
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sits an awful fevered murder of crows. |
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Itching the dusk with the call that only they can lay low, |
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And so that day they did unwittingly dispose |
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themselves to the appetite behind all O |
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Men yet not comprehending their stick in the scheme |
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of the prey-on-prey ballet of ending day |
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Prey-on-prey ballet of ending day (x4) |
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Those crows |
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Twitching with the omen they've become on earth |
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Several thousand thick in a fit, |
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of everything but empty |
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Those crows sicked, their starving wings |
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on choking out the sun fall's sinking pinks |
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Surrounded by the wellwater black of near night and become, |
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Those crows dove into the quiet of the half sunken in sun |
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To set themselves against the same take-spark that aches in men |
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Their die, their dive, and their dire became them |
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And all that barged into the sunset's wellwater pith of a sky seeming what if, we're spit back out to doom and sings of flocks of forks with wing |
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An obvious and ominous earth ode and grand |
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To the soaring sordid appetite (the soaring sordid appetite) (to the soaring sordid appetite) of man |
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The sky has always been a complex death of all its hunting things, |
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And so (cause) So (cause) shall the crow (cause) |
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Cuts its throat's most awful cough |
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From its heavy metal song |
