The Crow's Caw
In the bristling lights of the fair maiden city,
Came hither a man with jaunty orange tresses,
His mind was rummaged deep with folly,
Deeds of misfit- albeit dreary and melancholy;
He was named Crow- bearer of blackbird,
A whimsical fool- if the alder termed blander,
His eyes sought alight, blurred with mischief,
For he saw within his eyes, a fair maiden insistence;
The Sun rummaged its echelon of lore,
Shadowing her innit- its blinding boar of love,
The Crow's eyes bloomed with ore,
Transfixed and muddled with the fair maiden's gore;
And so he cackled his caw,
The Raven's ears alight to his bountiful ro-ar,
Her sweet smile flashed uncertainly,
Her eyes beckoned, undoubtedly;
He found them a flock a feather,
Nesting alike in jaunty come heather,
Their coos of love-making gratified,
Full of airy giggles in perspire;
But alas, the Crow's content came to a fend;
For he, in spite, garnered respite;
He made a night with another feather,
A nightingale no less, much to displeasure;
And thru the brave Crow's end comes to a flu,
His merrymaking bust with his crude part in tussle,
As for his end, perhaps he trailed a-flew,
One thin' certain, his beak forsooth,
Nether drank dew once more.