A black raven ruffles on a stone by a hollow. It beckons you come where none want to follow.

Your pain and your sorrow his promise to bury. The cost is your soul to hell it will ferry.

Look away from the shadows and the depths of the sea. For none of those things want to see you set free.

So the next time the black raven's squawk doth beckon. Alas, it's call is the harbinger of depression.