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

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