by Alexander Camp
You weren't born a bird, but you were born to be great,
to bring hurricanes to the bright sunshine state,
and quickly move on to the brightest of stage
to write your own fable, to fulfill your fate
so they praised you for plays in the depths of december,
as you guided your flock back south for warmer weather,
they called you their king, bound by the purple forever,
but I see a heart, black as raven's feathers.
For you fought and you battled, to achieve your main goal,
You silenced your scoffers, you won the big war
but in the war of the streets, 2 lives were the score
and though you gained the trophy, you gave up your soul
so caged by your actions, with no chance to flee,
you escaped from your bindings, and now you fly free,
you fool a whole nation with gospel from your beak,
but all that I hear is a crow's guilty plea.
you now roam the skies as an acquitted felon,
and devour your prey with your ring in your talons,
demanding the world call you a model and legend
so they may forget your lies and your past sins.
who am I to judge, just a bolstering critic,
they say it's half of the story, that I'm being a cynic
that it's all just a ploy or a self-serving gimmick,
that it's not how you start, but more how you finish
and it's true I can't judge, for I'm no judge or juror
but in the court of the People, I'll take it one further,
cause Lord knows I've been watching, and so is said by the birder,
"when your company is crows, it's nothing but murder."