Spoken

Feathers on a crows back are black and sleak
He wears a proud long billed beak
When he goes hunting far and wide and deep
You know the squawk that someone else is ever weak
The colour of the leaves are green and brown and red to me to seep
My mind is out their trying to reach the animal that was caught but no one can never ever speak
I watch the birds on tops of trees to see their prey they have to eat but isn't it horrid to be preyed upon when one moment you're alive then suddenly you are gone and my eyes can see to weep.