Crows

"Caw, caw!" shouts the crow, as his brothers join along.
"Caw, caw!" they all sing, in a melancholy song.
If they be the spirits dead, will we all join along?

"Caw, caw!" shouts the crow, as it echoes up the hill.
"Caw, caw," they all sing, as they ravage a fresh kill.
Upon what flesh do they feast? What lies dead on the hill?

"Caw, caw!" shouts the crow, as it takes into the air.
"Caw, caw!" they all sing, for no longer do they care
For carrion on the hill. What could make better fare?

"Caw, caw!" shouts the crow, as he lands upon my sill.
"Caw, caw!" they all sing, their beaks bloody from the kill.
Why do they stare at me from atop my window sill?