CROW

Yes you are as black as black is black.

So, soft to feel, are my lady’s tresses.

You do not sing at all like an angel.

Deep Socrates harrumphed his lectures.

You are, I understand, carnivorous.

So very much am I.

Peasants called you bad luck and murdered you.

My bad luck has no need of birds.

Certain poets do not care for you.

I do not care for certain poets.

Come, you and kin, land in my garden

Any time for a bicker and a yarn!

I like smart company.