Crows
Crows pick at dead bodies, and
the trees are neothing but skeltons
the leaves are dead
as the sky and as we break
their bones under our feet
we're the survivors of the
genocide on the human race
and everything is dead but
the crows that pick at the
dead bodies, we look upon
the dead, and see their pale
faces, and their bodys twisted
In clumsy postioning of their
mutilated bodies, and their
skeltal frame bent out of
place and thats left is
me and the crows who continue
picking at their dead bodies.
__________________
You're so evil and I'm so good,
I'll make it up to you someday.
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