These murderous ravenous crows
sqawking, gawking
at luminaries like me.
No eyelid bats.
I take off my bowler hat
and mutter innuendos.
The crows will murder neigbours
in my fantasy I deride
then rush to pitch of ecstasy.
I have killed my neighbour
the trouble maker.
Infringed on rights
not taken them away
on a pathway of black blood.
Crows are black, and leave behind
a trail of hauteur. Murder.
Sqawking murderous crows
nothing highbrow, plain and simple
murderers in sullied corners.
