Quoth the raven
it always prompts
but yet it does not speak
its outlook bleak
and would gorge out your eyes
with pointed beak
Its coat
coal black
like the undertakers mac
and eyes rich in their socket
like the undertakers pocket
their posture still
as they fix a glare
like the undertaker man
trying to pretend he's not there.
taking to the air with elegance and ease
like the petals of the funeral wreaths
caught in the breeze
flying over head
still with no phrase to quote
as the undertaker man
fastens the final bolt
the casket now closed
we begin to walk
as we all depart
in the distance
a squawk.
©spor
