An Ode to Crows

Some folks will tell you
about the beauty of Eagles soaring,
great owls of learning,
of proud-chested hawks,
or doves with feathers as soft as velvet
and voices soft as silk

Well, a plague on them
fer an ignorant ilk

Yer crow is yer poet for birds:
it can think on wings,
recite or eat most anything,
leave the city fer rambling:

For the patient ear,
they can even sing

Edgar Poe was close
but close is no cigar,
the crow is yer finest bird
yer finest bird by far