Liitle Crow

What can thou do, oh thou who art so brave?
Can ye run, flee, fly, flitter into the night?
What canst thou do against thine own eyes, once seen?
That unearthly blight dug fresh from a grave.

T’would be best to see them out!
Though it not cease the sight once shone.
That horrible of horribles, most vile of viles.
That which senseless does so filthily slouch.                              

But without thine orbs to see things through,
How wouldst ye fare,
as it has thine soul too?
Was it worth it? Now that ye know?
Was it worth it, ye fat little crow?

Caw! Caw! My fat little crow.
Thou has seen too much now,
and so must ye go
to the ever-sleep, deary, where each little crow dies.
Where the crow eater waits, excreting his flies.