The Old Crow

 

She lay there in the sleep of sleeps,

Despite all our attempts to wake her,

Loudly we did call her name,

And roughly did we shake her,

Until we were forced to concede,

She had gone to meet her maker,

Then, suddenly, a bang on the door,

And there stood the undertaker.

 

The expression upon his face did match,

His dark and sombre clothes,

How he'd received the news so fast,

None of us really knows,

Perhaps the tidings were carried to him,

By especially trained crows,

Or, he could sniff a corpse a mile away,

With his 'specially trained nose.

 

Next to arrive were the relatives,

Who had not been seen for years,

Wringing their hands in anguish,

Crying bucket loads of tears,

Picking up the ornaments,

And making them disappear,

Searching the drawers for a will,

Muttering “I'm sure she kept it here.”

 

At the funeral the parson prayed,

Prayers for her immortal soul,

Whilst the sexton stood proudly by,

Six foot of freshly dug hole,

As hymns were sung or mumbled,

Nobody lost control,

No tears fell upon the suits,

As black as the blackest coal.

 

As all walked away from the graveside,

Overhead the dark clouds parted,

The downpour which soaked the mourners,

Was over as quick as it started,

No Will! No Cash! Now ruined clothes!

Each and every one felt martyred,

Nearby, The Old Crow screeched with joy,

For it held the soul of the recently departed.

Ledger de la Bald (c) 2010