old mister Walters
sat in his chair
his feathery hat
to cover his hair
watching as crows
come down from the air
down to his feet
with flutter and flair
cuts for the crows
cuts for the damned
eat up the dead
their flesh in the sand
cuts for the crows
they whom he tends
a fashion of feathers
a murder for trends
his co-conspirators now
them: his only friends
the cuts are all folks
and the lives that he ends
cuts for the crows
cuts for the damned
eat up the dead
their flesh in the sand