The Crow

Scorching heat or cloud filled sky
Ground is wet, or be it dry
Mood solemn, or raised eyebrow
Constant is scavenging crow

Hopping and flying, non descript
Writing merrily, own life script
Loves all food, none to throw
That, for you, is working crow

Voice is harsh, pains the ear
Looks ugly, both far, and near
Butt of jokes, akin to sorrow
Would still remain, on the morrow

Must notice it’s, helping nature
Cleans filth out, without a stature
“Caws” aloud the vote of thanks
When food thrown, in it’s ranks

I find Crow, epitome of passion
Seldom fights for share of ration
Comes together to stand by ilk
Makes relations, smooth as silk

There are birds, that look so pretty
Some sing well, some are gritty
Most are focussed on how they grow
Noble exception is good old crow.

 

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