The Crow - Subtle

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