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The Morning Rook
Here is The tale of the morning rook,
she calls early, to wake all up.
And theirs horror with her squawking,
as though death is calling upon the breeze.
Crying for the ears of the sinners only,
who wake to wake and for nothing more,
who take it all, those that take everything from the day.
To much greed and nothing to pay.
The rook, she calls for the morn,
she whispers to the grim who were born
and tells then that there will come a day,
when she will take it all away.
Through the fog and to the black,
into the cold and never back,
towards the bed where you once lay,
into the ruptures of the day.
And when the night is coming in,
she will sleep and dream your sins.
Lying deep Within her minds eye,
dreaming the morn that is nigh.
She will wait for the sun to rise,
then she will take her reprise.
And your soul for all its worth,
is little pay for your birth.
Here is the tale of the morning rook,
I go to my window to take a look.
Their is nothing but the trees and the sky,
I hear nothing but deaths lullaby.
