Who’s there waiting when wickedness grips you by the nose?
It is I, a fluid shadow, the King of Crows
I sniff the air for errors to rectify
Meet them head on with casual discernment and a nebulous sigh
My pitch-black wings swing to all the towering views
They allow me to see the innocent spread too far and too few
You vermin, your hearts are tattered and filthy
Time, once again, to deck the halls with bowels of the guilty
An inky body is smeared with various coats made from innards
I relish the chances to wear these pulpy suits of sinners
It is my name, Corvus, that prompts sickly trembling
In my image, death is the sole figure resembling
With tinges of rote, I descended to the city not-so-sublime
Flitted past sights of iniquity and people of grime
In an alley, I crushed your skull
Chalked up the mesmerizing mess as a sloppy miracle